Hiraeth
by follyofyouth
Summary: Jenny Lands finds herself rebuilding her life yet again after a chance encounter with a mysterious stranger.
1. Chapter 1

Hiraeth

 _Welsh_

(n) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return

Downstairs, someone slams a door.

It's enough to snap Jenny out of her half-slumber, a futile attempt to sleep in for once on a Saturday morning. Instead, she is awake, blankets pulled over her head against the sunlight streaming in through the curtains.

Jack had insisted she take this room when she'd first moved in. He'd said the sunlight would be good for her. Edward had stood by, silent sympathy in his eyes. It is moments like this that she regrets her abject acceptance of her fate.

Her bed is good, comfortable. Sequestered here, there are no problems. Here, in bed, everything is right.

Or, so she tells herself.

Wilhelmina's voice, pitchy and irate, carries up through the floorboards, and Jenny reminds herself that there are far worse fates than her own.

She pushes herself into a sitting position, and then a standing one, letting out a quiet groan. No one had ever warned her that, even with a near magical serum, you could still wake to feel every second of 232 years of wear and tear in your very bones.

Admittedly, she's not sure who she expected to warn her.

She's given up on make up, but still sits at her small vanity to braid her hair back. Market days always require a touch more care than those spent lounging, or perhaps languishing, about the house.

She pauses, stopping to stare at the photo strip tucked into her mirror. It's them, crowded into a too small photo booth on a too hot day at Navy Pier, the way she'd though things would always be. They look happy, even with her wilted curls and his sunburnt nose. This is how she likes to remember their life, how she likes to remember him.

She can't dwell, not today. Today, she must get up and get dressed. She must brush her teeth and follow along to market. There are supplies to be bought, information to be exchanged. She must be alert, ready for trouble. She must not think of blood and alleyways, could have beens and never will bes. It is not what Nick would have wanted.

When she finally makes it to the kitchen, Edward is waiting for her in the hallway outside, mug in hand.

"Figured you'd rather avoid the circus this morning," he says, handing to her.

She nods. "Thanks." She pauses for a sip, enjoying the first piping sip of tea. "Sounded like a real blowout."

"Emogene's gone."

She shrugs. "Six weeks. Like clockwork."

"Wasn't always like this," Edward sighs.

"Wilhelmina still taking it badly?"

He nods. "Can't blame her. Em's gotten sloppy."

"She'll be back. Or," Jenny pauses, drawing in another sip. "You'll send someone to go get her and bring her home."

Edward grins slyly for a moment before his expression softens. "I know today's hard, J. How're you holding up?"

She shrugs. "I got up. I got dressed. It's something."

He nods again. "I've gotta check in with Jack, and then we'll head out."

She downs the remainder of her tea. It will be good to go spend some time out in the world.

It doesn't hurt her to see Boston like this. She'd cut her ties with the city when she'd left for school and moving back had been a need, not a want. She's not sure she'll ever really forgive its streets for what they stole from her.

This is not Chicago. This was never their home.

The trek is uneventful. There's the odd feral ghoul, quickly dispatched, and the sounds of gunfire somewhere in the distance, but they are otherwise left to their own devices.

Bunker Hill buzzes. Caravans have just arrived from DC, bearing news and supplies. Children dart about and buyers are already wheedling out better prices from sellers still new to the art of the haggle. In the remnants of the memorial, a new set of eyes keeps watch over the proceedings. She cannot make out much of him when he changes shifts with the next watch, only his sunglasses glinting in the sunlight. He's a new face, and Jenny makes a note to ask Kessler about him.

When it comes to the actual mechanics of maintaining the household, they manage like this: Edward handles the help while she handles the supplies. He has an eye for talent; she has learned to negotiate well. When the system works the way it's meant to, trips to Bunker Hill are incredibly efficient, largely routine affairs.

Stockton's man has the full set of holotapes from a Miss Moira Brown, a complete archive of the contents of the library in Alexandria. She had traded a copy of their complete Massachusetts Surgical Journal collection in exchange. On one hand, the trade is business-oriented; Jack has been on the hunt for several books rumored to have been in the library's collection. On the other, it is an exercise in frivolity; for all the potential research value contained within the collection of books, she is most interested in their digitized archives of _The Unstoppables_. There are also a few seed samples sent from the labs at Rivet City; while their own hydroponic system has been remarkably efficient at providing, she's eager to add a little more variety into their diet.

Mostly, she likes to hear the news. A girl out from one of the D.C. vaults quite nearly gave her life to activate a massive water purifier on the Potomac Basin; the whole Capital Wasteland has access to clean water now. The Enclave made, ostensibly, their last stand in trying to seize the purifier for their own. There's even rumor that the Brotherhood activated some sort of giant robot in the course of the offensive; Jenny doesn't quite believe that one. She may be two-centuries past her assigned expiration date, but even then, there are some things beyond belief.

She prods for updates, too, about the ghouls thrown out of Diamond City with the rise of its new mayor. She and Edward had had friends there, a handful of other pre-war relics like themselves. She's heard of some fleeing to Goodneighbor and others still setting up a small farm up to the northeast. She worries for Arlen most of all; there's only so much a person can take.

Edward spends his time recruiting. Jenny's not sure how he does it, how he gauges the balance between ruthless killer and reliable contractor. She tries not to worry too much, though; after two hundred years, she's fairly certain he and Jack have at least established a thorough vetting system before placing anyone at Parsons.

Kessler doesn't have much for her about the new guard; he'd rolled into town a few weeks ago, needed work, and had quickly proven himself handy with a sniper rifle. He wasn't wild about stationed at the top of the old monument, especially in its decrepit state, but seemed to come around after a chat with Stockton.

"Why the shades?" She asks. "Looks like its about to pour."

"Don't start," the other woman answers. "He keeps the damn things on day and night."

The trip home is wet, but again, largely uneventful - a by-product of having an additional five, heavily armed traveling companions.

Argos rolls on along his perimeter check, wheels clattering against the cobblestone. He draws a few wary looks from the potential new hires, whose eyes drift toward the minigun mounted on his arm.

"He's defensive," Edward offers. "Makes it easier to keep the house secure."

None of the men seem comforted.

"If they can't handle Argos, they're never gonna handle Jack," Jenny mutters under her breath.

" Appreciate the confidence, Ms. Lands."

"Anytime, Mr. Deegan. Anytime."

She doesn't stick around for introductions. If she's heard Jack's spiel once, she's heard it a thousand times, and besides, she's eager to get the new plantings started.

The garden had been her idea, mentioned in passing her first week after moving in. She hadn't expected anyone to take her seriously when she'd offered the idea of turning the disused wine cellar into an indoor greenhouse; the financial investment alone made it impossible for most.

"She's got a point," Edward had said. "If the worst really does come to pass, it's not like going to the supermarket is really going to be an option."

Jack had paused, considering the proposal and the space. "How quickly could you two get it up and running?"

She'd turned to Edward, not quite believing what she had heard. "It'll take about a week to get all the parts," he'd begun. "Lights, troughs, seeds. And probably a few days to get the wiring and plumbing set, and a few more to get the initial planting done."

When all was said and done, it had taken them fifteen days from inception to completion.

It had helped to have Edward there, not only for his ability to rig the electrical and plumbing components, but for his ability to listen. He'd started gently enough, prying things out of her slowly. It started with why the gardening bug, which led to Chicago, which led to Nick, which led to, well, the whole mess that had brought her to Cabot House in the first place. By the time they were done, Edward had heard it all. He never faltered, never flinched, even when she finally broke, tears soaking through his shirt as she told him about Nick's murder and her own miscarriage, her two greatest losses jut a few weeks apart. It was like being six, again, Edward comforting her over a skinned knee and walking her the rest of the way home.

It was the first time she truly believed things might get better. They wouldn't be okay, but they might improve.

The bombs had somewhat scuttled that notion, but still. Life continued on.

The garden smells of greenery and moist soil. The tomatoes reach up towards the top of their cage; the herbs stand ready to be harvested. The lights beam overhead in defiance of the rain soaking the earth above. It is her proof that there is hope.

She misses strawberries, though, she's hopeful the new seeds will do something to ameliorate the problem.

Jenny had never liked dirt, liked planting, as a kid. Sure, her mother kept small, beautiful gardens, and yes, her grandmother grew determined little apples, but it wasn't until she was living in Chicago, in a rundown little apartment with a beautiful, communal rooftop garden, that the urge to grow something ever really took root.

Once everything's settled in, she heads back up into the house, and towards Jack's lab.

"Ah! Jenny. How was market?" He asks with good cheer.

"Productive," she answers, pulling the holotapes from her bag. "These came in. Complete contents of the Alexandria Public Library."

"Wonderful! Wonderful. Any other news?"

"There's a group of ghouls living in the old Museum of Natural History. Some of them are getting industrious, heading into the museum proper to gather what information and resources they can. Might be worth it to get in touch with a woman by the name of Carol down there."

"Local leadership?"

Jenny shrugs. "I wouldn't go that far. She owns the local hotel. Mothers the newcomers. I hear she has a finger on the pulse of the place, so she seems like your best bet for contact person."

"Still no word on an Air and Space excavation?"

"Sorry, Jack," she offers. "Going theory is that it's too dangerous. Maybe some of the Natural History ghouls will go digging, if their current effort nets anything useful."

"And the crash reports?"

"What crash reports? Like, a vertibird crash? Because I'm fairly certain scavvers have already picked those over."

"No, Jack. Nothing on the crash," Edward chimes in from below a piece of machinery.

Jenny thinks, not for the first time, that Jack and Edward are the best example she has ever seen of the argument that relationships are a balance. Yes, she and Nick were each other's counterweights when it came to the so-called work-life balance, but mostly, they fed off of one another. Investigations and contacts and leads somehow rolled seamlessly into sex and brunch and holiday plans.

Jack and Edward are different. Edward is practical, well grounded. He is a product of South Boston and his own efforts to get out. He is sensible. Reserved. _He knows what it's like to struggle_ , Jenny thinks. _He knows what it's like to rely on yourself_.

Jack is theoretical, abstract, more interested in the _if_ than in the _how_. Yes, Jack had worked, but it had been with the backing of money, of a once-influential father. Jack is gregarious. He is without shame, even in his more unusual beliefs. His belief that things will just _work_ is beyond her comprehension and, she suspects, even beyond Edward's.

Somehow, though, they fit together.

Regardless, she realizes a little strategic redirection might not hurt. "How were the new recruits?"

"Enthusiastic. Perhaps a bit skittish, but enthusiastic."

"They're looking to build their rep," Edward adds. "Move up a little in the merc world."

"And we pay well," Jenny says. "Probably doesn't hurt. How'd they take the customary interview?"

Edward groans.

 _So much for strategic redirection_ , she thinks.

"What is it that you two find so objectionable about it? It's a valid question."

"Even when the term 'standard hiring practices,' meant anything, it generally didn't include questions about, well -"

"Aliens," Edward finishes for her. "The reds? Sure. But not aliens."

"When you hired me, I didn't know how to react. And that was _with_ the benefit of being prepared for it."

"I thought you were pulling my leg, at first." The ghoul admits.

"Didn't you two ever _wonder_?" Jack asks, exasperated.

"Well, _sure_ ," Jenny starts. "But it was mostly about whether or not we'd have money for groceries

"Or the electric," Edward adds.

Jack stares at them both for a moment. "Well, that _would_ explain it, then."

"Most people nowadays are more worried about where they're getting their next job, their next meal, or their next fix to consider the unknown." Edward continues. "We've all been shielded from the worst of it."

"Point being, they're as taken aback by the question as we were." Jenny adds.

"True, true," Jack muses. "But still. It's important to know who's open to more extreme possibilities."

"So, aliens it is, then?"

Jack grimaces at her flippancy. "Aliens it is."

By dinner, Wilhelmina's mood has not improved. She speaks only to Jenny, and even then, it's only to ask for salt. Jack shoots Edward a furtive look over his glasses: _here we go again_.

Jenny can't entirely blame her. The woman's only daughter runs off into the Commonwealth, no plan, and no direction. With raiders, mutants, the Institute, and your run of the mill sickos, it's not the best development - especially with said daughter's taste in men.

Still, this is what Emogene _does._ It's what she's done for the better part of the last two decades. She always manages to make it back in one piece, none the worse for the wear, and itching for a dose of the serum. As long as that's in play, she'll always come back to roost.

"That was worse than usual," she mutters to Edward over the dishes.

"Wasn't just Emogene," he answers.

Jenny sighs. "So, the Lorenzo issue again?"

Edward offers a vague "Mmm, " as good a sign as any that the issue had reared its head again, that the conversation had taken the same inevitable path, that Wilhelmina was as unsatisfied with its conclusion as she ever was.

Yes, she had spent time in Parsons following her arrest, but had never noticed anything odd, anything out of the ordinary. Despite over two hundred years in Cabot House, as a de facto member of the Cabot family, she has never met Lorenzo, nor does she ever expect to. Trips to Parsons are few, and taken only as a matter of absolute necessity.

If it were only Jack who feared the man, she would be skeptical. Jack is brilliant, yes, but is also blessed with a brilliant imagination, a tendency to read too far into things. It's Edward and Emogene's fears that truly offer her confirmation of the possible threat.

After all, it had been Jack and Emogene who had originally come up with the plan to subdue Lorenzo, and Edward who had figured out how to keep the man confined despite the difficulties of the post-apocalypse. Hell, keeping Lorenzo contained was of such dire consequence in the immediate aftermath of the bombs that Edward had exposed himself to a near lethal dose of radiation to make sure the asylum held. Though he'd never taken his looks too seriously, the resulting ghoulification had still been a major sacrifice, an indication of the threat Lorenzo truly posed.

Wilhelmina had never supported it. She truly believed her husband was still there, that he just needed to come to his senses. On some level, Jenny understands. If Nick had come back from a case a different man, she's not sure she would have believed it either. She knows she would have fought for him; why wouldn't Wilhelmina fight for her husband?

Jenny tries not to think about it. The serum aside, there's very little about the tale that ends well. And, even then, she's not really sure if the serum is all that great a boon. Yes, they are immortal, functionally. Yes, they have survived the bombs, the radiation, the intervening centuries. But what are they doing? They're holed up, ensconced in books and experiments behind a Sentry Bot with a small personal army at their disposal. But, for what?

For science? For knowledge?

 _For love,_ she thinks, watching Jack and Edward in the doorway _._

She wakes that night with a start. There's gunfire close, and it takes her a moment to realize it's not in her dream; it's outside her window. It's not Nick being gunned down; it's some other poor bastard.

She couldn't save Nick.

She might not be able to save whoever's downstairs.

It's stupid. Impulsive. Reckless.

She moves the curtain aside, gently. There's a man, staggering along the fence of the small green, doubled over. She can't make out much, but he doesn't look like a raider.

 _This is a bad idea_ , she tells herself, as she shrugs on a sweater. _He could be a robber. Or worse_.

 _Edward would pitch a fit_ , as she pulls on a pair of galoshes.

 _Just because you've spent the better part of two centuries reading every medical text you can get your hands on doesn't make you a doctor_ , as she grabs the first aid kit, then gently shuts the door.

 _You would have done it for Nick_ , as she steps out into the night air, eyes darting around.

 _He would have said you were out of your mind_ , as she realizes she's unarmed.

 _He would have helped anyway_ , as she rolls the now collapsed man over.

It takes a minute for her to realize that she's seen the man before, that he was the guard she'd spotted in Bunker Hill this morning. He's still sporting his sunglasses, now accessorized with a stylish belly wound.

She thinks, for a moment, that she is going to throw up.

It's not the blood, not the wound. It's not even her nerves as she hauls the man to his feet. She can handle Jack, can handle Edward. She's even relatively certain she can handle taking care of any lingering after effects.

But she looks at him, at the trail of blood behind him, and can only see Nick.

It's the gunfire. It's the wound. It's being in this place, in this city, on this day. It's the ache she feels every morning, and the emptiness she fears every night. It's blood soaking through cotton and the way his breath is too wet, too ragged.

She won't leave him.

There is the matter of where to keep him, though. The house is, obviously, out of the question. There are too many people; there would be too many questions. More importantly, it'd be a serious breach of security. Jack may like to interview those who catch Edward's eye, but even then, they don't get near the house without first passing the body man's litmus test.

The simple fact is that they live in balance, on borrowed time. Introducing an unknown is dangerous. She cannot, and will not, endanger the people she has come to care so deeply about.

She also will not leave this man to die.

Instead, she drags him to the side of the house, through the alley, and into the small building made to appear abandoned. The ground is slick, and she struggles to keep the man upright, bundling him into the small, makeshift, two-story shed.

Once upon a time, it housed an icehouse; then a summer kitchen; then, a guesthouse; now, the generator for the entire Cabot complex. It is small and secure; Edward had included the building in the post-war renovations, allowing it to keep power and running water. There is a small cot mounted against the wall, and the small guesthouse bathroom had been left intact.

It is perfect.

She bundles him through the door before locking it behind them, and lowering him gently to the floor. She shrugs off her sweater, tossing it aside before kneeling down gingerly next to him. She opens the kit, and begins her task, pulling on gloves, and gently lifting away the layers of clothing from the wound.

Or, more accurately, _wounds_ , as she quickly realizes.

There are two holes, a perfect entry and exit, through the left side of his gut.

She bites back the bile rising in her throat, and peels his shirt over his head, knocking his sunglasses asunder. His eyes are glassy when he meets briefly meets her gaze.

Jenny recognizes a dying man when she sees one.

She could let him pass, load him up with Med-X and give him someplace quiet and safe to spend whatever time he has left. It'd be the merciful thing to do, the sensible thing to do. She would have helped in her own small way. She wouldn't have left him out there to die. She would have at least given him some dignity.

But this is all too close, all too familiar. He is not Nick, but it might as well be Nick's face gazing up at her for the way her hands are shaking. The man might have a wife, a husband, a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, a friend, There might be someone waiting for him, someone wondering where he is, someone who will go through life with a hole, an emptiness that nothing quite fills, nothing quite repairs.

So, she gives him a dose of Med-X.

Binds his wounds as best as she can.

Monitors the transfusion from the sterile blood pack.

And stabs him with a dose of the serum.

As far as stupid, reckless, egregiously _bad_ decisions go, this one is up there. Keeping the serum's existence on the down low is paramount to keeping off the radar of everyone ranging from petty crooks to raiders to the Institute itself. Even without Lorenzo, there's a hundred million ways everything could blow up in their faces, and any one of those players would be enough to do it.

She'll just have to hope her patient doesn't notice.

Dragging him onto the cot is a challenge all its own. He's half a foot taller, and practically dead weight. It's been years –centuries, really– since she's had to do any heavy lifting and she is woefully unprepared. Finally, after much time and effort, she gets him onto his side on the mattress.

She turns her attention, then, to the layers of clothing cast off in pursuit of the wound. There's a tattered shirt, a leather jacket, and a cap.

Jenny tells herself she's looking for a contract, a letter, some hint of this man's identity. She tells herself that she should check for which caravan team he's with, so she can let them know their man hasn't abandoned his duties, that he's just taken a hit.

She would never admit that what she really wants to find is a little more personal. She wants a note, a scribble, a drawing, something. She wants to picture this man's family, the people he who count on him. She wants to know whom else she's spared, who's waiting for this man to come home. She wants to know that she's taken this risk, this terrible risk, for someone else, someone beyond this man.

Someone beyond herself.

In the inside pocket of his jacket, her fingers find the sharp crease of a folded note. She can barely make out the penciled writing in the dim glow filtering in from the spotlights; she finds the man's lighter, and reads by that instead.

The hair on the back of her neck prickles, and she feels goosebumps beginning to rise along her arms.

There has been talk of the Railroad for almost as long as there has been talk of the Institute. In theory, she likes them. If the stories about synths are true, that they are sentient, that they are indistinguishable from a human, that they are stripped of their agency and threated as chattel, then she is glad that there is someone who cares, someone who is willing to help them.

But there are other stories, too, stories of entire towns wiped clean in the night, their inhabitants' belongings still scattered about. There are never any bodies. There are never any signs of struggle. There is just a vast silence.

She swallows hard, and tucks the note back into the jacket. Plausible deniability will not save them if the Institute has a tail on the man. She holds her breath, listening for what she doesn't know. Outside, Argos rolls on. There is the faint scampering of mole rats. The generator hums.

 _There's nothing to be done_ , she tells herself. _You've made your bed, now lie in it._

She hopes that if the Institute _is_ coming that they have the decency to be quick about it. End them, end the man, and move on. There's no need to make anyone suffer.

 _If you're out there_ , she thinks. _Get us while we sleep. Don't make Jack or Edward go without the other._

Behind her, the man stirs.

She gets up, and heads for the door. She'll have to leave a note explaining _something_ to Edward and Jack. She figures she can tell them a mostly true story; as far as she knew, as far as she should have ever known, the man was just one of the Bunker Hill guards. It never hurts to have a reputation for being helpful, especially with Jack's occasionally strange requests of the traders and caravaners. They can know about the Med-X, the blood pack, the bandages; they don't need to know about the serum. They can never know about the Railroad.

 _Sins of omission_ , her grandmother's voice echoes through her mind. _The things you don't say matter every bit as much as the things you do._

She's back in the shed, water and mutfruit in hand, books under her arm, before the sun even rises.

Edward brings her breakfast and a gun in the morning, and lunch in the early afternoon.

"How's your friend doing?"

Jenny shrugs. "He's got a bit of a fever, but I guess that isn't all that surprising. He's been out of it since I hauled him in last night."

"Was a hell of a risky thing you did."

She braces herself for a lecture, for a talk, but it never comes. "Nick would have been furious," she concedes. "Would have told me it was a damn dangerous thing to do on my own."

"He would have been right."

"What was I supposed to do?" She asks, not really expecting an answer. "Leave him out there? It's not like ringing up the ambulance is really much of an option these days. He wouldn't have made it back to Bunker. God knows he wouldn't have made it to Diamond City. I couldn't … I … a gut shot's a terrible way to die. I couldn't just _watch_."

"Not when we had we he needed to have a fighting chance."

Jenny relaxes, letting go of the tension she hadn't realized she'd been carrying in her shoulders. "Yeah," she exhales. "Something along those lines."

"He armed?"

"Was," she says, pointing toward the now-folded pile of clothes. "There's a holster in there, but no heater. Must've dropped it somewhere."

"Or lost it to whoever jumped him. Some punk who needed the caps for a fix."

"Thought we got out of the old neighborhood," she jokes. "You know, moved up in the world."

"You can bomb it to hell, but Boston is still Boston."

"Can't even think about what Southie must be like these days."

"Let's not find out."

She lets out a short laugh. "Agreed. There's enough danger around the neighborhood. Things any better on the home front?"

It's Edward's turn to laugh. "Come on, J, you know the storm never passes that quickly."

"Stranger things have happened!"

"Pigs ain't flyin' yet."

"Do you think any pigs still exist?"

"Why? Got a craving for bacon?"

"Edward!"

He grins. "I'll leave you to it, Florence Nightingale."

Her charge is still sleeping soundly when darkness falls. She ventures back to the house for a pillow and sleeping bag, unwilling to leave him unsupervised. She is still nervous, but reasons that, if the Institute wanted this man, they would already have found him, and they would all already be dead. After all, why risk missing your target?

Her gut still prickles when she thinks of the letter. It is the first real secret she has ever kept from Edward, or Jack. It weighs her down, reminds her that actions have consequences, that those consequences have a far greater potential impact than the loss of her own life. More than anything, she _wants_ to tell them. They'd figure something out. There would be a plan.

But she's not sure they'd ever trust her again.

She can't risk that.

Sometime around ten, the man stirs, slowly coming to.

"Easy, sailor," Jenny starts, rising from her perch on the floor. "Your guts are all back where they should be, but you've still lost a lot of blood."

"Where _am_ I?" He asks, and Jenny almost drops her mug at the California accent.

"In a shed. Not too far from Bunker Hill. What's the last thing you remember?"

"How'd you find me?"

"You weren't exactly inconspicuous. It's not every damn night a man gets shot outside my window."

"You're shitting me," He groans. "That huge house, it's actually occupied?"

"The Sentry Bot, spotlights, and 'KEEP OUT' sign weren't enough of a tip off?"

"I've seen some weird stuff out in the 'Wealth."

"Welcome to Cabot House."

He starts to push himself into a sitting position, admits defeat with a wince and a muttered "Alright, then."

"You had a clean entry and exit. That doesn't just heal over night."

"Why help me out?"

"What can I say? You were my type; bloody, dying men have always left me weak in the knees."

She grimaces internally. It's a dark joke, even by her standards.

He laughs, then winces again. "You got a name?"

"Name's Jenny."

"Nice to meet you, Jenny. Call me Deacon."

"So," he ventures during breakfast the next morning. "What's your story? Aside from patching up strange men."

"Officially, I'm a research assistant, and one half of the house's staff."

"Unofficially?"

"I read a lot, and sometimes venture out. I negotiate with traders. I take care of the gardens."

"Gardens?"

"We have a sort of greenhouse. In the basement."

He eyes her over his sunglasses, now back perched on his face. "You're bullshittin' me."

"You don't believe me?"

"I know a story when I hear one."

"Stay there," she says, though she's not quite sure where she expects him to go. She breezes into the house, sidestepping the second round of the Wilhelmia-Jack debacle, throwing a sympathetic glance in Edward's direction.

Descending into the garden, she finds herself strangely excited. The apple trees were one of the last additions, brought in by burly men in the last few days before the bombs. They'd had a hard time the first few weeks; Edward once said that she'd gotten them to thrive on force of will alone.

Luck, love, force of will: the how had never mattered to her. It still doesn't.

The latest crop had only really come into its own within the last day or so. She'd been planning to harvest them in earnest just after the trip to Bunker Hill; her preoccupation with the man —with Deacon— had superseded that. Edward had taken up the slack in her absence, leaving her a basket of freshly picked fruit.

She grabs an apple, polishes it off, and heads back up the stairs, and out the kitchen door.

The sun is shining outside, and the world is quiet. These are her favorite kinds of days.

"Alright," she begins, shutting the shed door, and hiding the fruit behind her. "What'd you know about apples?"

"Apples? You mean like Dandy Boy?"

"I mean like real apples, ones that grow on trees. "

"Juicy red fruit. People used to bake'em into all sorts of things. Heard there's a lab down in Capital Wasteland, trying to get them planted in a hydroponic system."

"Ever had one?"

"'Scuse me?"

"You heard me."

"You see a lot of apple trees around here?"

"I don't know," she says, polishing the apple against the side of her dress before holding it up. "You tell me."

"Where did you-"

"Told you. I spend a lot of time in the garden." She crosses the room, depositing it in his hand. "Try it. We generally have a pretty good crop."

She watches his skepticism recede with each bite.

"How?" he asks.

She bites back a smile. "The folks who were living here before the war were concerned about how they would eat if the worst came to pass. They set up the greenhouse. Every subsequent generation's just maintained it."

"Must make resupplying a little cheaper."

"I wish. Can't grow bullets. Or books."

"Wait, you have books? Books that aren't burned, waterlogged messes?"

This time, she can't hold back the grin. "We have a garden. Are you really surprised to hear there are books?" She shakes her head. "You're gonna be here a few days more at least. Got any requests?"

"Something hopeful?" He ventures.

"You're askin' the wrong woman."

"Surprise me, then."

She comes back with an armful of books, mostly hardboiled pulp. She'd never taken up a taste for the literary canon; Nick had teased her about it on the day he'd finally taken notice of her bookshelves.

" _Got a thing for detectives, Lands?"_

"Just one

."

She loves them, but there's a reason she keeps them in their boxes.

"These should keep you busy," she says, setting the pile next to the cot.

"Damn," he says, picking the top one up. "Pristine."

A week in, and she's gotten used to him. He's back on his feet, and through a good chunk of her library. Emogene's still slumming in somewhere in the 'Wealth and Wilhelmina has graduated to the silent treatment for them all, but it somehow feels far less onerous than usual.

Naturally, she isn't looking forward to the conversation she has to have.

He's back in his gear, now free from blood, getting ready to head out. The serum's effects were subtle, but she's experienced enough to spot them. There's a scar across his back that's slowly been fading, and another ropey one on his left bicep that's starting to sink level. The entrance and exit wounds aren't even visible. He looks healthy, a miracle in and off itself.

"Deacon, I need a minute."

There's a lump in her throat and her hands have gone clammy.

"Lay it on me."

She thinks about abandoning it altogether. There's no reason he ever needs to know. She could let him go, let him walk away with as a nice a memory of being shot as is possible. She doesn't need to end this on a sour note.

"I know …." Her heart is pounding. "I know you're not _really_ a guard. Not full time anyway. I know you're Railroad."

He laughs. "Jenny-"

"I read the note. The one in your pocket."

He's quiet now, unreadable behind his sunglasses.

"I wasn't trying to snoop. But … I thought you _were_ a guard. And I wasn't sure you were gonna make it. I've been on the other end of that, and, if you had family, well, I figured someone should tell them … if … you know … if you didn't." She pauses, swallowing hard. "So, I read the note. And spent the first two days you were here convinced the Institute was about to kick down the door."

She can't look at him. Instead, she focuses on wiping her hands down the front of her apron, just trying to get through her speech.

"Look, I've got people I have to protect. I'm not crazy about the thought of the boogeyman showing up to end us all. But … if you end up in a scrape or you need something or somewhere to lie low, well. Come find me. Is what I'm getting at."

There's silence.

She swallows hard.

"How do I get back in?" He asks. "Waltzing through the front door isn't my style."

"I'll add your palm print into the system. You can get in and out through the back gate. It'll ping my terminal."

Another beat.

"You sure about this?" He asks.

She's not. She doesn't want to put the house, or her family, in danger. She should back out, tell him to forget it. She should never have brought it up. There are levels of stupidity, of wanton disregard for personal safety and the safety of others, but this is a new personal low.

That's the story she's told herself for the last four nights, lying in bed. IF she was sensible, reasonable, she would never even have broached the subject.

But her heart has always ruled her head.

Her heart, the bastard, says 'do the right thing,' says ' you can't just stand by.' _You hated the injustice you saw when the world was still whole; it sharers, and you're suddenly willing to roll over and let it slide?_ She thinks of _The Little Prince_ , of foxes and roses: You are responsible for what you tame.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

He considers this for a moment. "You're gonna need a codename."

"Codename?"

"This isn't without its risks. Codenames are the first line of defense."

She chews on her lip. "You got any suggestions?"

"It's your call. Codenames are a personal business."

"Call me 'Nightingale,'" she offers.

"Like the nurse?"

"Like the song."

She doesn't recognize him when she sees him next, only believes it's him when he starts quoting Raymond Chandler books. He's got a gash on his gun arm, too deep for a bandage. She patches him up and sends him on his way, an apple for good luck.

He shows up again, six months later with another new face, gun arm akimbo, obviously dislocated. It's a quick visit, a shot of bourbon and a "scream quietly." He offers her a pained smile and is back out into the night in less than half-an-hour.

In between, the world is quiet. Emogene comes and goes, lingering long enough for the serum to take hold, and a quick chat before she's off again. Jack grumbles about how she's already had her Grand Tour and, really, must she keep extending it?

She and Edward keep on their rounds to Bunker Hill. She's never sure who to look for, but she can't help wondering if Deacon is there.

A year passes in much the same fashion. She finds him one night huddled in the back of the shed, shaking and sweating.

"This isn't gonna be pretty," he offers by means of an apology.

"Wasn't pretty with you leaking your guts all over, either. What is this, some kind of virus?"

"Detox," he grinds out. "Took my cover a little too seriously."

She helps him to his feet, and deposits him on the cot. "Christ, you really are a mess, aren't you?"

Even with the sunglasses obscuring his face, she can tell he's sheepish. "Figured if I kicked it once…"

"You could kick it again." She wraps two fingers around his wrist, and keeps an eye on her watch. "Your heart's going like a jackrabbit," she says after a pause. "I don't know where you were coming from, but you're lucky you made it here."

"What're you gonna tell-"

"Edward? That my guard friend came back, he's feeling under the weather, and he doesn't make enough to see a doctor."

"He'll buy that?"

"Edward's pre-War," she offers. "Grew up on the poor side of town. He'll understand."

She feels a twinge of guilt. Sure, she hasn't yet brought hell down on their heads, but she still doesn't like lying to Edward.

She's also not particularly good at it.

 _It's not_ really _a lie_ , she tells herself on the way into the house. _She_ did _meet Deacon as a Bunker Hill guard. He_ is _feeling under the weather_. _He probably_ doesn't _have the caps on hand to see a real doctor or get his hands on Addictol_.

Everyone else is asleep as she winds her way to the kitchen, filling a decanter with water, and a glass with juice. She rummages briefly through the pantry, in search of something salty, and coming away with a bag of potato chips.

She's seen Jet withdrawal before, a lifetime ago. She'd been working a story and stumbled on a group of veterans hooked on the nasty stuff after their stints in Anchorage. They shook and sweated and, usually, ended up right back on drugs again. She'd gone to funerals for two of them before the bombs had fallen.

Deacon's got the cot blanket pulled around him when she opens the door. He looks like a strangely oversized kid, crunched in the way he is.

"How'd you get clean last time?" She asks, handing him the juice.

"Luck," he says, taking a sip. "A good babysitter."

"So, the hard way, then. Just like this."

"Addictol's a little out of the price range when you've been slamming Jet for a month and a half."

She grimaces. "Suppose that makes sense. You get something out of it, at least? Other than withdrawal, I mean."

"Got what I needed," he offers, taking another sip. "All that's left to do is pay for it."

He spends the next two days shaking, shivering, and vomiting. He barely eats, and his skin takes on a waxy pallor. His heart races and the fever refuses to break. The third afternoon, he seizes, and she realizes that the hard way might be too hard; she remembers all too well what happened to the two vets.

Once he's back, once he's coherent, she leaves him on the floor, the breakables cleared away, and sets out for Goodneighbor.

She hates traveling alone. Edward's made sure she's a good shot, but it's hard to tell what's shadow and what's danger when you're only relying on your own senses. She knows she's no match for a group of raiders, let alone a single super mutant.

Once upon a time, the gun in her holster belonged to Nick. It's a six –shot .44 revolver with a 'V' carved into the grip. It had seen him through years of service, gotten him out of plenty of scrapes. She carries it in his memory and, in the faint hope that, if he's out there, he's watching over her.

The ramshackle gates of Goodneighbor are comforting, a word she never thought she'd ascribe to this place. She's dressed to unimpress, years of trips to market having taught her a thing or two about how to blend in. She goes first to Daisy, who's fresh out. Then to the Hotel Rexford, which likewise leaves her high and dry.

She huffs, and resigns herself to a trip to The Third Rail, and the faint hope that Charlie might have something for his often patrons suffering from a more demanding palette.

She makes it halfway to the bar before Emogene spots her.

"Don't tell me Jack and Edward sent you out here."

"Nah," she offers. "This is my own death-wish errand."

"Thought you were a bit more choosy in your intoxicants."

"I'm not here for me," she says, motioning Charlie over. "Or liquor, actually."

The blonde's eyebrows shoot up at the Addictol purchase. "And Jack thinks I'm the only one who gets into trouble," she drawls. "I know you're not using, so who's it for?"

"You can't tell Jack," Jenny says, fishing out the caps. "Or Edward." Charlie hands her the syringe. "Especially not Edward."

"If it wasn't for Edward, you'd be as bad as me."

"If it wasn't for Edward, I wouldn't be here."

"What are you hiding?" Emogene asks, taking a sip of her beer.

"Not what, who."

The blonde barely manages to keep the liquid from coming out her nose. "You're hiding some _one_?"

"A friend of mine," she says, pulling Emogene along as she heads to the bar's exit. "Works at Bunker Hill. Got himself in a pinch. You know the story."

"Where is he -"

"The generator shed."

Emogene's face lights up. "Well done, Lands."

"I'm not proud of myself. Oh, but speaking of things I'm not proud of," Jenny trails off, rummaging in her bag and pulling out a syringe of the serum. "May it never be said I leave you high and dry."

"You're a good woman."

"If you get into trouble, get out of it with a good story," Jenny says, turning to leave.

"Should take your own advice!" The blonde calls after her.

The trip home is blessedly uneventful. When she slips back through the door, Deacon is sitting propped against the wall, half-asleep, sunglasses falling down his nose.

"I owe you," he says as she rolls up his sleeve.

"Find a way to put an end to that abominable classical music station, and we'll call it even."

She doesn't see him for months after that, but Stockton stops her one morning in Bunker Hill, pressing a note and a holotape into her hand.

 _This should be a temporary fix on that classical station_ , the note reads.

She can't help but smile when Ray Eberle's voice pours forth from her terminal.

It's the middle of 2281 before he appears again, and by that time, she's half-convinced herself he's dead. It's a new year, a new face, but an old shtick: Bunker Hill guard.

He stops her as she makes her rounds, a Dashiell Hammet quote whispered in her ear, and disappears before she can make a sound.

A few months later, he's back in the generator shed, blood gushing from a cut over his eye.

"Have you considered _not_ wantonly pissing people off?" She asks.

He winces. "Awww, where's the fun in that?"

"Guess I should be grateful you're not bleedin' out your belly."

"Never gonna live that one down, huh?"

"It's been four years," she says, closing the gash. "And my back still hasn't recovered from hauling your ass in off the green."

"Don't look any worse for the wear."

"That's the bourbon talking, Deacon. Which reminds me, might want to lay off the firewater."

"Really," he says, taking another slug from the bottle. "You haven't aged a day."

Jenny laughs. "Really, it's the bourbon "

She flirts briefly with the idea of telling him, of letting him in on the secret. He's too drunk to believe her at any rate, but his expression, even with the sunglasses, might still be worth it. Instead, she runs a finger under the newly stitched cut. "Guess I'll be seeing you with a new face next time," she ventures. "That bad boy is gonna scar."

He grins up at her. "Think I can tell'em a Deathclaw did it?"

It's almost 2284 by the time he shows up again, though she's gotten better at spotting him around Bunker Hill, even with the face changes. On one of her sojourns back home, Emogene mentions a drifter around Goodneighbor, who also seems to fit the description; Jenny can't exactly say she's surprised.

He's sick as a dog again, but it's a new cause: radiation sickness.

"What, did you take a dip in Boston Harbor?" She asks, setting up the second IV of RadAway.

He's hunched over a bucket, forehead slick with fever sweat. "Heard swimming was good for your health," he offers.

"Mmm," Jenny intones. "You're letting your vanity get the best of you again. You know they can't see those muscles you've got under all those clothes."

He offers her a half-laugh, half-groan. "Could use Dorian Gray's portrait artist."

"You're not wicked enough," she counters. "And I don't think arts patron is really a profession that exists these days."

"Have you heard Magnolia sing? I'd support that."

He retches into the bucket again.

"Maybe you'd better focus on supporting your body through the rest of the detox process."

Deacon groans.

"You ever think of doctoring full-time?" He asks. "You might be able to do some real good out there for people."

"Me? Nah," Jenny answers. "It'd feel weird calling myself a doctor when I haven't gone to medical school with that group out in the NCR, or had much in the way of formal training. I can read all the textbooks I want, but it's not the same."

"I don't know," Deacon counters. "You've always done right by me. "

"Besides," she continues, unbothered. "I've heard enough stories about what goes on out there. People getting mugged, people getting killed," she pauses, and lowers her voice. "People disappearing."

"That one really eats at you, huh?"

"Haven't gotten over what you told me about Stockton's little girl. Don't think I ever will."

"For what it's worth, I'm pretty sure if she knew, she wouldn't either."

She shudders, thinking of the likely fate of Stockton's biological daughter. "Poor thing. The whole lot of'em."

Deacon nods, then retches again.

"My feelings exactly."

By the end of 2285, he's ended up in the shed three times for the same injury: burns. Each visit brings a new face, a new set of scars, a new cover. She can't decide if it's a good or bad sign, and knows better than to ask.

The first time, the face is grim. He barely speaks. She can't tell if it's rage or fear, or some combination of the two.

The second time, the face is pained. His gun hand is beginning to blister, and she winces in sympathy when she sees it. It will be a long, slow healing process, and she knows he is not blessed with the option of taking time off.

The third time, the face is weary. There is relief in its features, and a kind of bone deep exhaustion. He drinks from a bottle of something that smells of something somewhere between pain thinner and scotch. He raises a toast to victory, and offers Jenny a shot, laughing at the way her nose wrinkles.

"You only ever offer me the finest liquor," she groans.

"Gotta pay the piper somehow."

He spends the next year as a goddamn fixture in her life, after getting himself hired by Edward under some other alias, and quickly working his way into the body man's confidence.

Jenny vacillates between wanting to know if the house, if Jack, Emogene, or godforbid, Lorenzo, have some sort of strategic importance, and wanting to be kept in the dark about Deacon's motives. She's never seen an ounce of malice in the man, but knows all too well that looks can be deceiving.

He becomes her unofficial bodyguard on outings, tailing her through the markets. She assumes it's a matter of pragmatism; from the bits and pieces she gets out of him, she assumes free, reliable, sympathetic medical care with discretion is difficult to come by. Still, she's grateful for the extra set of eyes; it's harder to disappear entirely with someone watching your back.

The stories of kidnappings pick up as the year goes on, and Jack asks Edward to have Emogene shadowed. Deacon takes to the task with aplomb, seeming to enjoy the risks of tailing a mark who's actively trying to lose him.

She patches him up a few times, though they're minor scrapes compared to what she's accustomed to seeing. It feels strange to sit with him in the pristine kitchen on padded chairs, surrounded by gleaming appliances.

In the sitting room, Wilhelmina turns the radio dial to the classical station, and Jenny groans.

"Tell me, mister," she asks, feigning nonchalance. "What's your going rate on a big job?"

"How big's the job? Mr. Deegan pays me 200 caps a week for trailing Ms. Cabot."

"Mmm," Jenny intones. "Not really sure how to describe the scope. Part search and find, part demolition."

"You've got my attention."

"My kingdom if you can blow up that damnable classical station's transmitter. Or, better yet, it's station."

"'Bout eight years of doctoring is my going rate."

Jenny grins at him.

One afternoon, about four months into Deacon's tenure with them, Edward knocks on her doorframe. She's knee deep in translation notes for Jack, five books open on her floor to cross-reference the charts. She's only half-paying attention, and jumps at the sound.

"Sorry, J," Edward starts. "Didn't mean to startle you, but I've got a question."

"Tell Jack I need more time."

Edward furrows his brow.

"It's … not about the translation?" She asks.

He shakes his head. "It's about one of the guys we hired."

"What's wrong?" She asks, sitting back on her haunches. "One of'em go missing?"

"One of'em … one of'em's itchin' to take you on a date."

Jenny goes bug-eyed. " _Who?!_ "

"Johnny." _Deacon_.

"Oh," she says, face softening. "That's … a surprise."

"Say the word, and I'll put a stop to it."

She sighs. On the one hand, she's at least confident it's not actually a date. On the other hand, she's not sure she's ready for whatever it is she's actually being drafted into. "I mean, it's been 200 years, right?"

"You gotta do what you're comfortable with. I've got your back either way."

She chews on her lip. _In for a penny, Lands_ , she tells herself. "Let it play out, I guess. See if he gets the guts up. "

Edward nods. "You change your mind, let me know."

"Appreciate it."

It takes Deacon two days to ask her, on the way to Bunker Hill, a perfectly bumbling performance, complete with a near inability to make eye contact. She plays the surprised, demure school girl, and graciously accepts.

Her terminal pings later that night, and she ventures down to meet him in the shed.

"Alright, I give up: what's this about?" She asks.

"Your quiet charm and stunning beauty?"

Jenny rolls her eyes. "Try again."

"Your refined sense of style and taste?"

"Deacon, I'm wearing pajamas."

"They're nice pajamas."

"Deacon."

"Alright, you got me. I could use your help on an op."

"Me? What, somebody get hurt?"

"Negative. Need you to play the distraction."

Jenny crosses her arms. "I'm a little out of practice," she says before she can stop herself. _Oh, fuck,_ she thinks, her heart beginning to pound. _Universe, Nick, whoever or whatever's out there: don't let him have noticed that._

He raises his eyebrows at her.

"What?" She asks. "Sometimes Emogene needs an accomplice."

He doesn't push the issue. "You live in a pre-War house, wear pre-War clothes, and are probably the most knowledgeable person I know when it comes to the old timey stuff. Hell, you could pass for pre-War yourself."

Jenny bites her tongue to keep from laughing. "Go on."

"We've got a package stalled, and a merc who I'm pretty sure is on the Institute's take. Rumor has it he's got a soft spot for old world dames."

Her lips purse, and her brow furrows. "He lays a hand on me, and I'll lay'im out."

"He lays a hand on you, and he's gonna have trouble," Deacon offers. "I'm not looking to even put you in range of that."

"So, what _do_ you need me to do?"

"Rumor has it our guy fancies himself a regular Romeo with the old world blues set. You saunter into Goodneighbor, catch his attention, and get him drinking at the Rail. You keep him occupied, and I get our package out."

"I'm not going in unarmed."

"Wouldn't dream of asking."

"Alright, you got a deal."

She tells Edward that the date is set for Saturday, that they're going out for drinks at The Third Rail, and that she'll keep an eye out for Emogene. Edward tells her not to bother, that he's heard Em's shacked up somewhere in the Upper Stands of Diamond City, and that if she needs an escape clause to let him know, no questions asked.

Saturday afternoon, she stares into her closet. All of her clothes from her old life are here, including her wedding gown, tucked away in a garment bag. She's not sure what she's supposed to wear to attract her mark's attention, not sure just how 'old world' she's supposed to look.

Her eyes drift to a red dress, _the_ red dress, and her chest clenches. She knows it will do the trick, yes, but it seems wrong to taint it. She'd made that dress, met Nick in that dress, been proposed to in that dress. It had seen her through office parties, precinct Christmases, birthdays, anniversaries.

 _It's a dress_ , she tells herself.

But that's bullshit and she knows it. The dress is everything she's lost wrapped up into one neat package. It's Nick, and her job, and Chicago, and the paper. It's Navy Pier, their small green kitchen, and the dive bar they'd first met in. She runs a hand down the side seam, remembering how hard she'd worked to make sure it fit so perfectly, the way she'd admired herself in the mirror before stepping out that fateful night.

She moves it into the garment bag, next to the unworn wedding gown.

She settles on something green and lacy, smart flats, and curled hair. Her face looks strange with make up, and she feels ridiculous concealing a handgun in her pocketbook.

Deacon meets her outside the house, hands tucked into the pockets of slacks she's never seen before, and gun on display in a shoulder holster.

"Old world enough for ya?" She asks.

"A fashion plate for the 2077 summer season."

He briefs her as they walk. Their mark's name is Jimmy Halloran. He's from the Capital Wasteland, moved up about five years ago. He's your rank and file merc, but with too many caps to play with for that kind of lot in life. Irma noticed him snooping around the Memory Den just after the latest package arrived, and tipped off HQ. Her job is to catch his eye, keep him busy, and give them enough time to move the package on.

She smoothes down her skirt, and checks her lipstick in a small compact just outside the gate.

"Ready?" Deacon asks.

She nods. "Let's go."

She's half way to the Hotel Rexford when the mark notices her. He's slick, oily, and probably hasn't bathed in two weeks. Jenny smiles sweetly, and plays to his vanity. She bats her mascaraed eyelashes and humors him with red-lipped smiles. She offers to buy him a drink in her most honeyed tones, slipping Charlie a generous tip in the process.

He waxes poetic about the world that was, and she fights the urge to burst his bubble, tell him it wasn't all that great. She feigns horror at his description of baseball, biting back a laugh the whole way, and listens attentively as he describes the wonder of General Atomics Galleria, forever preserved.

She fights the urge to tell him that the Galleria was a tacky publicity stunt, one armed with several hundred accidents waiting to happen, and that if he wants true majesty, he should go find himself a print of the Windy City's skyline.

Instead, she nods along, _ooh_ ing and _ahh_ ing as expected. He tells her he's come into some money lately, that there's _a lot_ more where it came from, and that he's looking into getting out of the merc business. He's thinking about setting up in Diamond City's Upper Stands, decorating it in obeisance to the old world. He tells her how he's been collecting pieces, found some real museum grade ones, but that he's still missing the thing that'll make it all complete.

Deacon's hand is on her back before their mark can even finish his next thought.

"See you made a new friend, darlin'," he says, never once breaking eye contact with the other man. His smile's all teeth, and she can only describe it as predatory.

"You know me," she starts, looking up at him with what she hopes comes off as adoration. "Just can't help but find _someone_ to talk to. Mr. Halloran here was just telling me about the General Atomics Galleria."

"Well," Deacon drawls. "Isn't that just _fascinating_? Come on now, darlin'. Time to go."

"Goodbye, Mr. Halloran," she says in her sweetest voice. "Lovely to have met you!"

His hand slides around her waist, as they turn to leave, the smile still plastered serenely on her face. Out of view of the gate, he finally drops cover. "Package is on the move."

She lets out a long, slow breath. "That's good news. "

"Find anything out?"

"He's definitely on the Institute's take. They're paying him enough that he's thinking of getting out of the merc business, retiring to Diamond City."

"Upper Stands?"

"Where else?"

"Mmmm," Deacon murmurs. "So, he's got incentive to stick around Goodneighbor for now. That complicates things."

"What he needs is incentive to take a goddamn shower. The way he talked, he's got more than enough caps to pay for a dose of Rad-X and some soap."

Deacon lets out a short laugh. "Can't disagree with you there. Thanks for the help, by the way."

"Anytime."

"You got a story to tell our Mr. Deegan?"

"Yup. And it's one that won't even get you fired."

She still doesn't like lying to Edward, but she _has_ gotten better at it. When he asks the next morning, she tells him Johnny was a perfect gentlemen, while also noting that date might have been too strong a term.

"Poor guy's lonely," she offers. "He hasn't been up from Capital Wasteland that long, and he's still finding his footing. Between you and me," she whispers. "I don't think he gets out much, except for work."

Edward nods. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she says, smiling at him. "I'm glad it wasn't actually a date, though. I'm … still not ready. Don't think I ever really _will_ be."

"For what it's worth," he says, turning to leave. "I'm proud'a you. Even if it wasn't a real date, there's no way that was easy."

Her smile is small, but genuine. "Thanks. I mean it."

Deacon's with them through November, and then is gone again, saying something about setting up his own caravan company. He tells Jenny he has plan on the back burner that's coming to head, one that might finally tip the scales.

She quirks an eyebrow, but knows better than to ask. Instead, she hands him an apple, and wishes him luck.

She hears from him from time to time, by way of Stockton. She even catches a glimpse of him once on his way out of the gate at Bunker.

When her terminal pings late one September night, she isn't prepared for what she sees.

He's covered in blood, and reeks of death. There's burns on his arms, and his right leg is gashed open. The bruise on his cheek is dark and his breathing looks pained. His hands are balled into fists, and his whole body shakes.

"Jesus Christ!" She hisses, shutting the door behind her and hurrying over. "The hell happened?"

"The goddamn … Institute bastards … found us," he grinds out. "Hit HQ."

Jenny's blood runs cold. "Oh my god," she whispers. "But you said there were families there."

"When … has the Institute … ever given … a flying fuck…"

She swallows hard. "Come on, let's get you patched up."

She pries his hands apart, and doses him with a shot of Med-X before yanking out the glass, and stitching the skin back together.

He's silent, gritting his teeth as she repeats the procedure with the two cuts on his leg. He doesn't even wince when she checks his ribs, just a sharp inhale when she finds the three that are cracked.

She's halfway through cleaning and bandaging his arms when he finally speaks. "We didn't … stand a chance. Came in so fast … didn't have time to trip … the defenses. Whole place … reeked. Burning flesh. Never … saw it coming."

"You do the best with what you can."

"Someone … sold us out. Or … got sloppy."

"Deacon."

"If we got … twenty … of our people out … it was a lot."

"Deacon."

"Fens … was six months pregnant … Left her a pile of ash."

Jenny squeezes her eyes shut. She's seen this before. She'd lived through it with Nick after a stakeout he'd been on got bloody. After his death, she hoped someone, somewhere bore the same kind of guilt.

"Deacon, you couldn't have stopped this."

"All year … all f _ucking_ year … and I got nothing.'"

"You got people out. That's something."

He shoves one bandaged hand under his sunglasses, rubbing at his eyes. "It's … not over.

"What d'you mean?"

"If they got … HQ … they'll get … the safehouses. … if they haven't already … Maybe not … all of them … but enough."

"So," she says, after a moment. "What now?"

He pushes himself to his feet, groaning. "Every minute I'm here … I'm putting you in more danger."

"From everything you just said, I'm already in danger. You-"

"No."

"No what?"

"No … written records of you. No … way to find you."

"So, _officially_ , I don't exist."

He offers her a weak smile. "Couldn't … bring down the transmitter tower … Hope this is … enough."

"Deacon-"

"Nightingale. Jenny. I gotta go."

"You-"

"In case we don't … meet again, thank you. For everything."

He squeezes her shoulder, and is out the door before she can protest.

She doesn't hear from him for weeks. Stockton is mum. She hopes that, if he's dead, it was quick, and that if the Institute's gotten to him, that he found a way to end it on his own terms, one last _fuck you_ for the road.

She tries to make peace with it.

Then, one day in late October, a man in caravan clothes with a hunting rifle slung over his back offers her a smirk and a salute across the crowd at Bunker Hill. Her eyes bug and the smirk softens into a smile.

If the exchange lasts fifteen seconds, it's a lot, but it's enough to carry Jenny through the blowout Jack and Wilhelmina are in the midst of when they make it back to the house. It's enough to carry her through Nick's birthday and her should-have-been anniversary. It even carries her through the growing fears of Parsons' insecurity, of serum shipments being disrupted, and raiders growing more clever in their tactics - almost as if they were being helped, or worse yet, guided.

It carries her, right until he ends up in the sitting room, brought in by Edward with another man.

This isn't the typical hire. It's not a new class of mercs contracted for standard work. Edward's plan was clear: go out and find the toughest looking sonofabitch he could, with the sole condition that he be easily persuaded by generous payment.

Jenny assumes Deacon is the accessory, rather than the target.

The man next to him is, well. It's safe to say he doesn't fill Jenny with confidence.

Clad in a vault suit and leather armor, he's sprawled across the divan, legs wide, hand on his gun. Ordinarily, she doesn't question Edward's judgment when it comes to people, but this time, she's got her doubts.

The man's got too much swagger, and too little care; she's seen even the coarsest mercs drum up the basest decorum on crossing the threshold into the house, but not this one. He just keeps his gaze roaming, appraising everything. She knows it's not awe, and doesn't figure it for envy. If anything, it's almost a blasé disdain.

Deacon, who is nigh impossible to read on the few occasions she's spotted him in the field, is obviously uncomfortable. He angles himself away from the other man, thumb brushing back and forth across a lighter. The tension between them crackles; she half-expects harsh words or a sharp rebuke to spill forth from either of them.

She lingers in the lab, watching the proceedings from the mezzanine until she's called down. Edward stands to the side of Jack. The new man is now standing, and Deacon rises to his feet as she descends the stairs.

"Gentlemen," Jack begins. "My research assistant, Ms. Lands."

"Don," The vault suit says, extending a hand.

"Pleasure." She says, taking it.

"Bobby," Deacon says, taking her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You as well," Jenny offers mildly, ignoring the piece of paper he's slipped into her hand. "You gentlemen think you can retrieve our shipment? It's rough territory out that way."

"I'd be more concerned with how your men let it slip in the first place," Don says.

"Believe me," she says, never breaking eye contact. "We're concerned. We've built a reliable network; some of the men have been under our employ for ten years. "

"Allegiances shift."

Deacon tightens his jaw.

"Yes, well," Jack intervenes. "I'm sure Edward will address any personnel problems that arise."

Jenny nods and excuses herself, retreating back to the lab. Her notes are still sprawled out across a table; adding one more is hardly conspicuous.

"Bobby's" handwriting is cramped, but legible. _Don't know what your people are keeping out at Parsons, but you don't want him near it_.

It's surprisingly direct. She's come to accept, and even expect, a certain degree of cloak and dagger in his missives. The odd update she receives through Stockton is always, at the very least, a bit cryptic. Coming straight out with anything is dangerous; that he's willing to take the risk speaks volumes.

Grabbing the lighter from Jack's desk, she walks over to the sink and sets the paper alight. She doesn't need any unnecessary questions.

She stops Edward in the hall later that day. "You got a minute?"

"What's up, J?"

"Look," she starts. "I know personnel is your call, and ordinarily, I think your judgments are unimpeachable, but I don't have a good feeling about this Don character."

"He handled Jack alright."

"I know, and sometimes, that's a worry in and of itself."

"I'm listening."

"I think he can do the job. That's not my worry. But if … if our worst fears come to pass, if someone _else_ is somehow involved in this … what's to keep him from a taking a better offer?"

"What? More caps?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. And that's what worries me. We don't have a damn thing pointing to an inside job. There's not a soul working Parsons who knows the full extent of what, or who, they're guarding to leverage it. But having a courier carrying the serum get hit? "

"Raiders can hit anyone, J. It doesn't mean anything. I don't think we're looking at a turncoat risk."

She shakes her head. "I know you're right. But … be careful with him. Watch your ass."

Jack spends the next two days puttering in his lab, looking into something about the zeta gun. Edward works to manage his ever-slipping hold on Wilhelmina. Jenny starts off another translation.

Everyone is tense, all busying themselves with whatever they can find. Edward excuses himself to check on the state of things at Parsons. The Jack-Wilhelmina shouting starts early this time, and continues at periodic intervals. They're in the midst of a match when Don and Deacon finally return.

Jenny's outside when they get back, staring up at the stars. She'd slipped out just as Emogene returned, keen to avoid reunion drama. Don and Deacon follow soon after; even with the sunglasses, she can spot the sourness in Deacon's mood.

"Are you coming?" Don asks when they reach the door. His tone is clipped, irritated.

"In a minute," Deacon says, matching his ire. Once he's sure his traveling companion's won't immediately be coming back out, he turns his attention to Jenny. "Can I have a word with you? Alone?"

She raises her eyebrows, but heads back towards the generator shed.

"How well do you know Emogene?" He asks once they're inside.

"Emogene Cabot? Pretty well at this point."

"She ever tell you about this 'serum' of hers? Makes it sound like a fountain of youth, but it's gotta be bullshit, right?"

Jenny's eyes bug. "Fucking hell, Em," She groans, burying her face in her hands. "Look," she says, turning her attention back to Deacon. "I'm gonna tell you a story, and you're not gonna believe me. Hell, I wouldn't believe me. So, I'm going to get the proof beforehand. You got a minute?"

Deacon's eyebrows are almost in his hairline. "I got time."

Making her way up to her room by the back stairs, Jenny can feel the knot forming in her stomach. It's all consuming, enough to drown out the chaos she can make out down below. Showing him the box means showing him _everything_. It means telling him the story, telling him about Nick. She's had enough practice sobbing in front of strangers to have lost the shame attached to it, but that doesn't mean she's looking forward to this.

"You ever read the old _Boston Bugles_ hanging around?" She asks Deacon as she begins to unpack the box.

"Few of'em, yeah."

She nods once. "So, you've read the story about the cop the mobster had gunned down."

"Yeah. Guy by the name of Nick Valentine."

She nods again. "How much else you remember?"

Deacon shrugs. "Something about the mob boss being let go, the fiancée going mad with grief …" He trails off.

She hands him a pristine copy of the paper. "Here, you're gonna want to refresh your memory on the details."

"How'd you find one so nice?" He asks, scanning it over.

She doesn't answer.

He looks up at her when he finishes. "Yeah, I've definitely seen this story before."

"Alright," she pauses. "Now comes the part where you stop believing me. I'm the fiancée."

Deacon's silent for a moment. "Is this some kind of family joke I'm not in on? You can't be her. You'd be …"

Jenny shakes her head. " 242 years old, I know. I'll prove it."

She hands him her license, then her press badge from the paper in Chicago, then her birth certificate. She moves on from there, pulling out her marriage license, the photo they'd had taken the night Nick proposed, the invitation proof. Then the clippings. There she is, shell shocked at the funeral. There's her article, the one that had set her on the path to Cabot House. There she is, being led from their apartment in handcuffs. Accompanied by Edward on the way out of the Mass State Correctional Institute. All in pristine condition.

He's silent while he reads, shifting from document to document as if to confirm the details. Jenny picks at her hands, somewhere between crying and vomiting, and ferociously determined not to do either.

His voice is soft when he speaks. "Christ, you really are her, aren't you?"

She nods. "Yeah," she says, trying to speak around the lump that's sprouted in her throat. "Would've told you sooner, but …"

"No real easy way to bring it up," he finishes.

"Yeah," she says. "I met you on the anniversary of Nick's murder. Two hundred goddamn years to the day." She sniffles. "The gut wound, the shape you were in … you could have been the worst raider in the 'Wealth, and I wouldn't have left you out there. Not that night."

"I always wondered why you took that kind of a risk."

She shrugs, looking away to blink back the tears she can feel sprouting. "I figured … I figured even if you had no chance in hell of making it, at least you wouldn't be alone when the end hit." She lets out a short, mirthless laugh. "Don't know what I would have done if that had happened."

"How'd you end up on Jack's radar to begin with?"

"Edward," she sighs, brushing away a tear. "He and I grew up together. I was the mouthy younger sister he never had. He was my protector. There's nine years between us; he used to walk me to school." She finds the seam of her sweater pocket, and begins rubbing it between her fingers. "He and Jack have been together … Jesus. A long time. So, when he read what had happened, he got Jack, who at the time, was using his medical degree as the head psychiatrist at Parsons, to write an appeal to the judge. Said I was too grief-stricken to fully understand the consequences of what I had done, that it was, in effect, a temporary insanity."

"I'm guessing that's not quite the truth."

Jenny offers him her best attempt at a smirk. "I knew damn well what I was doing. I couldn't keep the courts from letting Winter walk, but I could sure as hell stir up some outrage about them doing it."

"So, you wrote the article."

"And got myself arrested, yeah. Anyway, Jack argued that I was in need of intensive care, that I should be seen privately, and that I should be remanded to his custody until it was decided that I _was_ fit."

"But he had no intention of doing that."

"Exactly. " She pauses. "Edward made the argument that, after life as a reporter, digging up pieces, putting them together, that I might be a useful asset as a research assistant. Jack didn't take much convincing." She shrugs. "He'd do just about anything for Edward, but then again, that's mutual there."

"So, you found out about the family secret, this _serum_."

She shakes her head. "Not right away." Jenny bites her lip. She knows she has to get through the next bit quickly, if she wants any hope of maintaining some of her waning composure. "When Nick was killed, I was pregnant. Not enough to show, but far enough. About a week before the bombs fell, I had one hell of a miscarriage. " She takes a deep breath, and shuts her eyes. "Edward found me doubled over downstairs in the greenhouse, blood soaking through my clothes. He rushed me to Mass General. I'd only been home a few days when everything went to shit."

"The next few days were a blur. It was like losing Nick all over again, except only now, it was worse. The one piece I was supposed to have left of him was gone. Hell, the whole world was gone. " She pauses. "There was a man who came to the house, big, tough fella. I was sure we were gonna die. Jack and Edward had gone to Parsons; it was just me, Wilhelmina, and Em." She laughs. "Fucking Emogene. She's a goddamn terror when she wants to be. " Jenny shrugs. "Anyway, Emogene … dealt with him. And we survived."

"Things were touch and go the first few weeks. I found out had my folks had survived, by some miracle. They'd moved somewhere in northeastern Pennsylvania for retirement. They'd gotten fallout from the bombs dropped on New York, but nothing direct. That was some of the only good news. Edward got sick pretty quickly after that. Jack wouldn't leave his side. He came back … different, but at least he came back. _That_ was when I learned about the serum."

"See, Jack realized that it was the serum protecting him, and Em, and Wilhelmina. They knew that it stopped the aging process, but they didn't realize the other piece. It's why Edward got sick, and Jack didn't, even though they were both out there. He radioed Em, and told her to stick me with a dose. I've been on it since." She realizes she's shaking. "I guess … in the long run, I'm luckier than most. My folks are still around - they ghoulified not too long after Edward. I have a beautiful safe place to live. I have food and clean water. I've seen … a lot of life. More than most anyone else ever will."

"But it doesn't fix it," Deacon adds, gently. "I know. Losing someone like that … it's like losing a limb. You compensate, but it doesn't fix it."

She nods.

"How long were you two together?"

"A little shy of ten years. Met him breaking my first big story. I got sloppy with my cover. He had my back. My codename —Nightingale—it was our song."

Deacon swallows hard. "Barbara and I had five. We didn't know it, but she was a synth. Local gang found out. It got bloody. "

It takes Jenny a moment to process the implication. "Jesus, Deacon. I'm so sorry."

"I took payment in kind. A few weeks later, a Railroad agent found me. Figured I'd be sympathetic."

"And here you are," she says.

Deacon nods. "Here I am."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you the whole truth. Sooner, I mean. I just … everyone's got baggage. You didn't need to be roped in on mine."

"No offense taken. Hell, I'm not in a place to judge," He offers. "I've just got one more question."

"Shoot."

"What's got everyone quaking in their boots about Parsons?"

"Lorenzo."

"Who?" Deacon asks.

"Jack and Emogene's father. Back in the 1890s, he went on expedition. Discovered … well, discovered a lot of things, but an artifact among them. He came back … changed. Inhuman strength. Powers that can only be described as telekinetic. Homicidal lunacy. And," she shrugs. "A dead stop on the aging process."

"I don't have the full story, but Jack had taken a blood sample from his father, trying to understand what had happened. He noticed there was something funny with the cell structure. It was human, but it wasn't. It regenerated too quickly. So, he extracted the DNA, studied it, and used it to create what we all use. He tested it on a lab rat. Kept the little bugger alive right up until the bombs hit."

"I don't know how Jack synthesizes it. I don't think I want to. All I know is this: it's eternal youth, as long as you're on it. It effectively grants you a certain level of natural resistance to radiation. And," she pauses. "It's pretty good at stabilizing people who couldn't otherwise survive their injuries."

She waits a beat.

Deacon doesn't miss the implication. "So, that first night…."

"Yeah," she nods. "Bullet went clean through you. Tore open your gut and let a lot out. If the blood loss didn't kill you, the infections would have."

"How'd you know it wouldn't hook me?"

"It's not addictive. Not physically anyway. There's no withdrawal, no itch when it's wearing off. It's just … it's very easy to get used to being alive. I knew a single shot would last long enough to get you through the trauma and the healing, but not long enough for you to notice anything. And…" she trails off. "I was very set on not having you die."

"Look, " she says, after a moment. "I know I should have asked. You didn't ask to be dragged into this. And I know I haven't been on the level with you, not totally in any case, the whole time you've known me, but -"

"Everyone lies." He cuts in. "You're a good friend. Come on," he says. "We should head back in before they talk."

Jenny hoists the box onto her hip. "Mmmm," she intones, sniffling. "Gossip: just what the house needs."

"Mr. Deegan would have a canary."

She lets out a short laugh. "Actually, Edward would be -"

She opens the door to the sounds of more shouting, and Edward's voice made tinny by the HAM radio.

She sets the box down on the kitchen table, and makes her way to the front room. "The hell is going on?"

"Raiders are attacking Parsons," jack says, turning to his her. His face is drawn. "Edward's there now, trying to shore things up, but it isn't looking good."

"And our people?"

Jack's silence tells her all she needs to know.

"I can pay you both handsomely, if you can spare the time to come along," he says, turning his attention to Don. "I'll be frank: we're in dire need of help."

"If you've got the caps, we've got the time."

Deacon's jaw tightens, and his gun hand clenches briefly into a fist before loosening again. "Raiders are scum," he offers. ""It's no problem to lend a hand."

"Good, good," Jack answers, absently. "We'll leave immediately. We have a spare cache of supplies if you're in need of anything."

"We're good, thanks," Deacon says, cutting Don off. "Let's just get on the road."


	2. Chapter 2

Jenny hates suspense.

She has always been a believer in start from the end, in peaking at the last page. _Life has enough uncertainty; why inflict anymore on yourself?_ She reasons.

Radio silence does not sit well with her.

It has been a long day, and she can feel the exhaustion in her bones. She wants nothing more than to go to sleep. She takes a hot shower, and brews a cup of tea. She lies in bed for two hours,

Finally, she gives up. She gets out of bed, pulls on a sweater, and heads for the garden. She flips on the other HAM unit, and sets about cataloging the seeds they'll need for the next round of plantings. It doesn't make her feel any better, but it's more productive than pacing the halls, or picking at her hands.

She thinks about the origin of her small sanctuary, of Nick and her baby, of the world that was. She thinks of Jack and Edward, who had taken such a risk on her; of Emogene, and the alarming capability she hides behind the flighty veneer; of Deacon, and his casual, easily given forgiveness.

For all that she has lost, she still has so much.

It is so much that she might still lose.

The radio crackles to life and she jumps, scattering seeds.

"Jenny? Emogene? Anybody there?"

Edward's voice sounds terrible, thin and labored.

"Edward!" She says, picking up the microphone. "What the hell happened? Are you alright?

"Jenny," Edward groans. "Jack's dead."

Her mouth goes dry and she feels a chill creep up her spine. "What-"

"He's dead. And Lorenzo's out - probably headed your way."

She sinks to the floor. "Are … are you sure?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "Listen, you gotta get out of there. Take Emogene and Wilhelmina with you."

She nods, though she knows he can't see. "Roger that." She pauses. "What do I do if I can't get them to leave?"

"Between you and Emogene you should be able to get Wilhelmina out. Drug her, if you have to."

"Nevermind Wilhelmina. I don't know that Emogene will leave."

"She's seen what Lorenzo can do."

"And she disappears for weeks at a time without telling us where she's gone. Personal safety hasn't been a concern for Em the whole time I've known her."

"There's a difference between having no judgment and having a death wish."

"Emogene thrives on danger. I've never seen her look more alive than the time she re-took the house from that Anders guy."

"She'll-"

"Edward, when has Emogene ever done what she was told?"

He sighs. "Go get them."

She wakes Emogene, then sends her in after Wilhelmina. It's not that Jenny isn't capable of rousing the Cabot matriarch herself, so much as the matriarch's poor reaction to being roused by "the help" doesn't make the task an especially pleasant one.

Once everyone's gathered around the sitting room unit, Jenny radios Edward. "Alright, everyone's here."

"Jack's dead," Edward begins, and the catch in his voice in unmistakable. "And Lorenzo is headed your way, which means you all have to get out. You probably don't have too long - maybe two hours, if you're lucky. Take what you need and head for Goodneighbor. I'll meet you all there soon."

"I'm not leaving," Emogene cuts him off. "Not a chance."

"Emogene-"

"If he's out and he killed Jack -"

"Lorenzo didn't kill Jack."

"Wait, what?"

"Lorenzo didn't kill Jack." There's that catch again. Jenny's fairly certain that ghouls can't cry, but Edward may yet prove her wrong. "The new guy did."

"The one you sent after dear Emogene?" Wilhelmina asks.

"Yeah, Mrs. Cabot. My apologies. Didn't realize what he was at the time. " There's a pause. "Don't know what Lorenzo offered him, but I've got a few guesses."

"What about the other guy? Bobby?" Jenny asks.

"I only came in on the end of it, but they had some kind of confrontation. Bobby wasn't happy with Don. Tried talking him out of it. Lorenzo knocked him out cold on his way out."

"And that's why I'm not leaving," Emogene says. "As long as Father's out, he's a risk. Someone's got to put him back in the box. If Jack's … gone, then it's you and me, Edward."

"Negative, Emogene. I was hired to protect you all. I'll … I'll find away."

The blonde turns to Jenny. "Take mother and go."

"I'm not going anywhere!" Wilhelmina protests. "Your father will come home, and come to his senses."

"Mother-"

"Emogene Louise Cabot," Wilhelmina begins, pulling herself up to her full height. "I will not be told what to do in my own house by my own daughter."

Emogene lets out a long, exasperated sigh. "Fine." She picks up the microphone. "Mother and I aren't leaving, Edward."

"Em-"

"The house is well stocked. We've subdued him once. We can do it again."

"Em-"

"I'll see you soon, Edward," she says, before unplugging the radio, and turning her attention to Jenny. "You heard the man: you don't have a lot of time."

"I'm not leaving!" Jenny exclaims. "I can't just leave you to two to … to …"

"Die?" Emogene offers, voice calm. "Clear eyes and brave hearts can't fail, Lands. I just have to get Father back in the box. Besides," she adds. "I haven't had this kind of excitement in _decades_. "

Jenny crosses her arms. " I—"

"I've got friends at the Rexford," Emogene continues, heading towards the stairs. "They'll put you up."

"Where are you going?" Jenny calls after her.

"To pack your things."

"I'm not leaving!"

Emogene stops. "What's Edward's phrase? Knock her out and drag her by the ankles?"

Jenny's silent.

"Don't be dramatic. Jennifer. It'll all be fine."

She refuses to move, refuses to _be_ moved, until Emogene returns with a suitcase in hand.

"Should get you through the next few days," she says. "Clothes, ammunition, books, the works. I'll get Argus to escort you."

"Emogene, really. I'd feel better staying."

"If this goes sideways," she drawls. "There's no point in all of us getting caught up in it."

Emogene presses the suitcase into her hand and steps outside. She reappears back in the sitting room with a curt "Come along, then" and Jenny feels every second of the more than 200 years that separate them.

Wilhelmina is, of course, no help. "Musn't upset Mr. Cabot, Jennifer," she says. "Listen to Emogene."

Outside, she turns to Emogene. "What the hell are you gonna tell Edward?"

"The truth: I sent you off."

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"It's all one big game, in any case. See you in a few days," she says, opening the door back into the house. "Have some fun for me."

Jenny stands in the street for a moment, staring after her. Argus rolls up behind, mechanical voice instructing her to move along. She tightens her grip on the case, wishing she had some means of subverting Emogene's instructions. Argus repeats his instructions, impervious to everything going on around him.

He rolls closer.

Jenny shifts her suitcase to her left hand, and draws her gun with her right. She takes one look back at the house, and sets off down the road.

There's not much to be said of her room at the Rexford, save for the fact that its door locks. She wedges her suitcase under the bed, and drifts down to the hotel bar. It's dingy, just like the rest of Goodneighbor, but it's still a step up from being out on the streets.

She's on her third beer when a body sidles up alongside her. "Nice to see you're alive," he says, quietly.

Deacon looks awful. One of the lenses in his sunglasses is smashed, and though she can't be certain, Jenny is fairly confident he's sporting a black eye .

"Edward got us on the radio. Told us what happened."

"Yeah," Deacon grinds out. "I get why you kept the joker in the box now."

"Where's Don?"

"In hell, I hope."

"What happened? I mean, I got the overall picture from Edward, but not a lot of detail."

Deacon shakes his head. "He said something about considering all offers and just … opened the fucking door. I didn't hear what he said, but out walked Lorenzo. I got off a couple shots, and then it all went black. Came to and Jack was dead."

"Was it … did he suffer?"

"I don't think the last few minutes of his life were sunshine and roses."

"I meant physically."

"Don't think so. Looked like a clean headshot. " He pauses. "I don't think it was Lorenzo who got to him."

Jenny shudders. "Small comforts, I guess…"

"You holding up okay?"

"I … don't know yet. It hasn't hit." She pauses, drawing in a shaky breath. "I'm kind of numb; it's the shock of it all. You get used to things. You take them for granted. You assume that the status quo will hold and that the bad things won't, hell, can't come to pass. When they do, it's like … it's like things stop making sense. I went to bed last night in the closest thing I've had to a home since Nick's death. Tonight, I'm crashing in a rundown hotel that didn't even have a great reputation before the war."

"How'd Wilhelmina take it?"

Jenny's face darkens. "I don't know."

Deacon's eyebrows rise. "She doesn't seem like a hard lady to read."

Jenny downs what's left of her beer, then orders another. "It was a little hard to do with Emogene throwing my ass out."

"She threw you out? What happened?"

She shakes her out. "Maybe the term's a little strong." She takes a sip from her beer. "Edward radioed, said Jack was dead, Lorenzo was coming. Told us all to get out before the shit hit the fan."

"With you so far."

"Well, with Jack dead, Emogene argued it was _her_ responsibility to get Lorenzo back under control, to get him back in Parsons before he could cause any more trouble. Wilhelmina was sure he'd walk through the door, and remember who he really was."

"Seems optimistic."

"She resented Jack for not at least attempting to maintain him in the house. It's not so much optimism as spite. " Jenny shakes her head. "I tried to tell Emogene that, if she was staying, I was staying, but she wouldn't have it. She packed my suitcase, escorted me out of the house, and then hotwired Argus to walk me here, like some post-apocalyptic school girl."

"Argus? "

"Sorry, the sentry bot."

"You named the sentry bot?"

"Argus Panoptes. All-seeing. It seemed appropriate."

Deacon stares at her.

"I may have gotten a bit too far into the good bourbon," she concedes.

"In any case, Emogene threw me out. Now, I 'm here. I have no idea what happened at the house. I have no idea if Lorenzo's there. I have no idea if Emogene can stop him. I don't know what'll happen if she can't. All I know is that Jack is dead, and Lorenzo's out. As far as worst case scenarios go, that's up there."

"So, what's your plan?"

"Could ask you the same. I'm betting that you're gonna have to explain why you've cut a potential out of the fold."

"Glory can deal with him. Or not," Deacon adds, bitterly. "I brought him in. I'm the one who fucked up. Now, I just have to hope he doesn't turn tail."

"There are more permanent solutions."

"Did you just suggest …"

Jenny takes another draw off of her beer. "I believe in seeing justice done. From everything you just told me, this man murdered my friend."

"It still won't bring'im back.

"If he murdered Jack, who was paying him a good bit of money, on the grounds of some unholy alliance, it says he'll turn around and do the same to anyone else. So, preventative measures. Risk management. Threat neutralization. " She takes another sip. "I can think of a hundred fancy terms for it."

"At the end of the day, it tallies up the same."

"Revenge is petty," Jenny offers. "Revenge is for slights. Someone steals your byline? Scoops your lead? Steals your half and half out of the break room fridge? That's what revenge is for."

"You're drunk."

She nods. "Yeah, but the point stands. Jack, for all his many eccentricities, was a good man, and a good friend. He tried to treat people right. Give them a square deal. And just … " She scrubs at her eyes. "If he was willing to kill Jack, there's not much he holds sacred."

"He's got a son," Deacon offers, quietly. "And a dead husband. Institute did him in and took the kid."

"Institute grabbed Stockton's little girl. She was probably terrified and she probably had a horrible death. Do you know how many people Stockton's killed? None."

"Jenny-"

"The man I loved, the man who made me feel like, no matter what happened with the rest of the world, we'd be alright, as long as we were together, was gunned down in broad daylight in the middle of the street on orders from a crime lord who the government let walk away clean. And then! And then, I lost my baby. Do you know how many people I've killed?"

"Jenny-"

"You. _You_. You lost your wife. Sure, you put an end to the bastards who did it, but how many people have _you_ killed?"

"You don't want to know."

"Raiders and murderers don't count."

"You still don't want to know."

Jenny shakes her head, beginning to cry. "Someone has to stop him."

"He keeps up like this, someone will."

"No," she gasps. "Before he hurts somebody else. Because he will."

"Finally hit, huh?" Deacon asks, squeezing her shoulder.

Jenny nods, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. "I forgot how bad it was. New loss, I mean."

"You think you're prepared for it, and you never are."

"I think I left Emogene to die," she confesses. "And what's worse, I think it's what she wanted. She never would have done it herself, but … all those times running off. Never telling us where she was It all points to one thing." Jenny shakes her head. "Only time I ever saw Emogene really … thrive was the first few weeks after the bombs. Life turned topsy and she just … she embraced it. But it got old, like everything else."

"And Wilhemina?"

"I'm not Edward. She'd never overrule Emogene."

"You can't save everybody."

"Did I really try?"

"Come on," Deacon counters. "We're not going down that path. Let's get you to bed."

"But did I?"

"Jenny," he sighs, pushing his sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. "I told you: You can't save everyone."

She wakes up the next morning with the room spinning. Someone is knocking at the door. "J, are you in there?"

 _Edward_.

She pushes herself up, and drags herself to the door. Her fingers are clumsy on the lock, and her stomach rolls.

Edward's face is drawn when he opens the door.

"Emogene and Wilhelmina are dead."

She means to say something. She means to have a coherent thought spring forth from her mouth. She is practiced. She has known loss, has lived with loss, for two centuries. She means to have some composure.

Instead, she gestures for Edward to give her a minute, walks into the bathroom, and promptly throws up. She takes a swig of water from the glass Deacon had left her with the night before, and spits, then rinses it all away.

When she turns around, Edward is staring at her.

"I figured," she says, by way of reply. "Taking it Lorenzo's in control of Cabot House, then."

"There was an awful lot of blood."

"Aren't you gonna ask me why I wasn't there? Your whole 'knock her out and drag her by the heel' speech?"

Edward shakes his head, sinking down on the sorry excuse for a mattress. "Emogene kicked you out, then radioed me. She made her choice. No one was going to stop her."

Jenny crosses the room, sitting down beside him. "I can't believe they're gone. I can't believe he's _out_."

Edward just stares straight ahead.

"It all happened so quick," she presses on. "Just … what happened?"

Edward still doesn't say anything.

"I saw Bobby last night," she tries. "He was the one who made sure I got to bed with the door locked."

"I fucked up," Edward finally offers. "It was my call, and I fucked up."

Jenny shakes her head. "You couldn't have seen this."

"You did."

"No. I had a bad feeling. No one saw this."

"I couldn't stop him."

"Lorenzo's not human. None of us -"

"Not Lorenzo. Our-" Edward huffs. "Don. I couldn't stop him."

Jenny's quiet for a moment. "What'd Lorenzo offer him?"

"The serum."

"Of course," she mutters.

"I have to go back. I have to go dig the grave."

"Unless you're planning on a concrete encasement, I'm not sure burying either of them will make a difference."

"Not them." Jenny's always heard that ghouls can't cry, but she's certain Edward's about to prove the assertion wrong. "Jack."

"I'll go with you," she offers, voice beginning to crack.

"I …I buried the others. What was left of them." Edward squeezes his eyes shut. "On the green, in front of the house."

"Wilhelmina would be so offended," Jenny jokes, as tears begin to roll down her face. "'How common!'" She says, mimicking the deceased matriarch's voice.

Edward buries his face in his hands, knocking his cap off in the process. "How many times do we have to do this?' He asks. "What's left?"

"Well, we can't go home," she says. "To the house, I mean. I guess in the broader sense, too. So … not much, I guess."

"I told him you were my sister," Edward says, after a minute.

"Lorenzo?"

He nods. "Didn't want you out on the street."

"I can't live there, either."

"I know. "

They sit in silence.

"There's a house," he says, finally. "Not too far away. Quiet neighborhood. Still intact. Could get a generator built, and a purifier."

"Where are you gonna get the supplies? " She sniffles. "The salvage pickings aren't as good as they used to be."

"Can scrap some of it … a lot of it … from Parsons." He pauses. "How much serum do you have?"

Jenny shrugs. "After last night … I haven't looked. I'm still set for another month, regardless."

"He's agreed to provide me with it for you, in lieu of payment, but -"

"Edward!"

"Lemme finish, J. You gotta meet with him."

"You can't _not_ get paid! You've got no leverage!"

"Jennifer Lands," he growls. "You are in no position to tell me what I can't do."

"Look, I've been, well, not exactly where you are but close enough and -"

"I'm not watching you die, too."

"What are you gonna do when he turns on you? It's not gonna matter anyway!"

"It matters to _me_ , Jenny."

"And you not being at the whim of a _lunatic_ matters to me!" Her voice cracks, and a new wave of tears starts. _Goddamnit_.

Edward sighs. "If it gets bad, I'll leave."

"You're just snowing me."

"I'm not. He asks me to do something I'm not comfortable with, we're done. I walk away."

"I'm holding you to that."

Edward side eyes her and the meaning is immediately clear: _Good luck with that one, kid_.

"What's the plan?" She finally asks. "Parsons, then the house -"

"Flip that. House, then Parsons."

"…Are you sure?"

"You really want to cross Lorenzo?"

"He sent you?"

Edward nods.

"Fuck."

She doesn't remember the walk back to Cabot House. The forty minutes pass in a haze of grief and fear. Her stomach is in knots, and for the first time, she wonders if maybe there is god, if there is a chance he's merciful, and if he'll just end them both now. She'd like it to be something quick, something painless.

Something before Edward can open the door.

Fleetingly, she wonders if she might be able to knock him out and avoid this whole mess. Her suitcase is heavy and she could get a good swing. It might be enough force to do the trick.

 _Don't kid yourself. You'd never be able to look your reflection in the eye again_.

The house is quiet. Blood is still smeared across the carpet and the baseboard. The sofa hasn't been righted. The radio is smashed to pieces.

Lorenzo Cabot stands at the stop of the stairs.

Jenny feels her mouth run dry. She's momentarily concerned about vomiting on the carpet, but reasons she's already emptied her stomach. She can feel her knees start to tremble.

"My sister, Mr. Cabot."

He's down the stairs before Jenny can blink and entirely too close a moment after that. She's certain he can hear the way her heart thuds against her ribs, can hear the inner voice screaming at her to run.

He eyes her over, as if he can see into her, gain some sort of insight from her disheveled hair and wrinkled dress. He reaches out and runs a finger down her jawline. "Not much a family resemblance," he finally offers. "But then, again, Jack and Emogene never looked much alike either. Tell me," he begins. "Why don't you look like him?"

"Beg … beg your pardon, Mr. Cabot?"

"You're not a ghoul, Ms. Deegan. Yet, he claims you as his sister," Lorenzo drawls. "How did that come to pass?"

"After … after the bombs, I was here. Jack and Edward were … were at Parsons. Edward had gotten sick. Jack radioed Emogene and she stuck me with a vial. Then, every six weeks, I took another injection."

"Generous, weren't they, Edward?" Lorenzo grins. "So generous with what was never theirs."

"Mrs. Cabot felt keeping the current household staff was preferable to finding replacements," Edward offers.

"Mmm, Wilhelmina was always so _particular_ about the staff. Tell me, Ms. Deagan, did you get along well with my wife?"

"I performed my duties completely and promptly," Jenny responds, unsure of how to answer.

"And just what were those duties?"

She is certain she is about to be killed. "Officially, I managed the household's supply of dry goods, and tended to the garden."

"And unofficially?"

"I did whatever was asked of me, Mr. Cabot."

He nods, seeming satisfied by the answer. "Why?"

"It seemed … seemed ungrateful not to. I'd been spared a death in the wastes."

"Mmm, a pardon that was not theirs to give."

She stands silently, trying to keep from shaking.

"Still, there is something to be said for fealty. Yes, you'll do. Edward," Lorenzo begins. "Take her things back to her room. She may remain here while you make other arrangements."

"Thank you, Mr. Cabot," Edward responds, picking up her suitcase.

"Thank you," she says, weakly.

The shower is blissfully warm. He shampoo smells good, and her bathrobe is soft. She sits on the edge of her bed and wonders how long she has left. She wonders how long Emogene lasted against him.

She wonders if Emogene was scared.

Someone knocks at her door, and she almost falls over herself to open it. She stands ready to apologize for her appearance, her demeanor, her-

Edward looks exhausted. He holds plans in one hand; the other, still poised to knock.

"Sorry," she offers. "Thought you were, well."

"Can I come in?"

She nods, standing aside as she opens the door. "Things aren't quite put back together," she offers.

"You did good," he says, quietly.

She shakes her head. "I thought I was gonna die."

"That was his goal."

She shudders. "Edward, I can't-"

"I know. You can't stay here. I'm working on it."

He unfolds a map of the city across her bed. "Here it is. I heard about it from one of Bunker's traders. I haven't been over yet to check the plumbing or scope out the electrical. I need you with me for that."

She nods. She can do this. They can do this. "Yeah, tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow. "

Jenny shivers. "How long do you think it'll be til I'm in?"

"If it's not a shithole, a month."

She feels the color drain from her face.

That night, she wishes for a lock on the door. She has never felt unsafe in the house, not since the early days after the bombs, at least. She has never felt the need to hide, to shield herself. She keeps Nick's revolver loaded and accessible, for all the good it will do her if Lorenzo changes his mind.

In the morning, she wakes early and heads for the kitchen. Lorenzo is already seated at the table, pouring over a book.

"Good morning, Mr. Cabot," she says. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."

He looks up. "Tea, please."

Her hands shake on the oven controls, but she manages to get the kettle situated. She pours the tea without incident, and sets it in front of him, along with the sugar bowl.

"No creamer?" He drawls.

"No sir, my apologies. The only creamer would be Brahmin-based and it's … it's too irradiated."

"Mm," he intones, mildly, continuing to read. "Very well, Ms. Deagan. Your brother has need of you, I believe."

She thanks him and excuses herself, fighting the urge to run down the hall.

Edward's door is open, but he is sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands again. Jenny knocks, gently, not wanting to intrude.

"Edward?"

He snaps to attention. "Mm? Sorry, J. Long night."

"Lor - Mr. Cabot said you needed me."

"I'm headed up to Parsons. You sure you want to come along?"

She nods. "He was my friend. And besides, I wouldn't leave you alone. Not on a job like this."

He stands. "Go get changed. I'll meet you at the front door in ten minutes."

The walk to Parsons is long, and the silence between them so heavy that Jenny's almost grateful for the bloodbugs, mole rats, and raiders who cross their path. They leave a trail of corpses behind them and, while it's hardly unusual, Jenny can't help but feel it's strangely appropriate. They can lose; they can impart loss. It's a balance.

Edward disappears briefly into a shed off to the side of the main complex, and emerges with two shovels. He passes one to Jenny, then continues up a small hill.

"Here," he says.

The soil is tough and rocky, and the job is hard. Jenny's forgotten how tiring manual labor is, and the reminder is unwelcome. Still, she owes him this, owes them both this simple act.

"You remember any of what we're supposed to say?" Edward asks, as they sit for a break.

Jenny's feet are dangling into the hole. "You were always the better Catholic."

Edward nudges his hat with the back of his hand. "I got 'The Lord is my shepard, I shall not fear,' but nothin' after that."

"He'd probably rather you just talked as you," she says. "I mean, it's Jack. Religion was never a priority for him."

"Couldn't come up with it for Wilhelmina and Emogene, either,"

Jenny cracks a small, sad smile. "Think Emogene probably would've preferred it that way."

It's dark by the time they're done, and a rad storm is beginning to roll in. Jenny hands Edward a sheet from her bag.

"Figured a coffin was past the realm of possibility. Hope this'll do."

He takes it.

"You want me to go with you?"

Edward shakes his head.

Jenny unholsters her gun, and settles down near the grave, waiting for trouble. She tilts her head back, and stares up at the few stars managing to peek through the thickening clouds. She is not religious, not by any means, but she believes in an afterlife. She imagines Nick and Jack and Emogene, and even Wilhelmina. She imagines Nick's gruff voice, whispering conspiratorially about "the maintenance on that woman." She hopes that they're happy, wherever they are, that they've found the people they needed to. She hopes Nick is still with her, somehow, and that Jack is watching over Edward.

It feels silly. It feels trite. She is not a child who needs to be told a fairy tale.

And yet, it helps.

Jack had once mentioned to her that the elements that became the building blocks of human life had come from dying stars. It feels fitting to look up at them and remember.

She pulls herself to her feet to watch Edward mount the hill, carrying Jack's body, wrapped the in the sheet.

"You got anything that you need to say?" He asks her.

She shakes her head. "I've always been shitty at goodbyes. You?"

"Already said my peace."

She sighs. "Alright. Let's do this."

They lower Jack slowly into the ground, and begin covering him with the earth they'd dug out. Jenny's never subscribed to the idea of funerals being a place of closure; if anything, they only highlight what you've lost.

She's not sure she believes in healing, either. Not from a loss like this, at least. It's not about closing the wounds, it's about learning to live with them. It's about finding an answer every time the voice in your head asks 'why not join him?' or 'what now?'

They try to make the grave look inconspicuous. There's not a lot they can do about the wildlife, but they can at least try to throw the scavvers off. When it's finally smooth and even, when they've disguised it well enough, Edward kneels down, and touches a palm to the ground. He rises, and they head for the house.

The next morning, she is in the kitchen before Lorenzo wakes, already working at breakfast. There is hot tea and sugar when he sits down, and she is promptly excused.

Edward finds her shortly after, looking like he hasn't slept. She fights the urge to ask him how he's holding up; she already knows the answer, all too intimately. She figures if he wants to talk, he'll talk; there's no point in pressing the issue.

They walk to the house in silence, though she's come to accept that this will be the norm for now. Edward was never especially chatty to begin with, and this the natural evolution of mixing that with grief.

The house is small, and run down, but intact. She reminds herself to withhold judgment; that she's lucky that such a place even exists; that, even before the war, Cabot House was the exception, not the norm.

 _The apartment in Chicago was nothing special either_ , she reminds herself. _You and Nick were the ones who really made it something to be proud of. No reason you can't do it again_.

They open the door to a corpse and a cat, who greets them with a chirp, and a brush up against Jenny's legs. She instinctively bends down to offer a hand; her feline friend brushes up against it, beginning to purr.

Edward grabs the body, dragging it into the dumpster behind the building, while Jenny rolls up the bloodstained rug and follows him out. She thinks briefly of her gran, of what she'd say about living in a place where death had so recently been. She shakes her head; _the whole world's a grave. It doesn't matter now, anyway_.

The prior occupant hadn't had much. A few cracked plates, some Fancy Lads, and what she suspects was, once upon a time, a mutfruit. They all find their way into the dumpster with their former owner.

Jenny's stomach twists. She feels bad for the man, or what remains of him. He must have had a life, people who cared about him, pride in the little place he called home. His little cat follows her around, meowing, looking for any scrap of affection she might spare. She thinks of how easily it could have been Jack, if someone else had gotten to Parsons first. She debates crawling in after the man, looking for some scrap of who he was, whom she should notify.

She shakes her head. _That won't do_.

Eventually, they venture down to the basement. Edward examines the pipes, looking for the first time since that radio call, to truly be in his element. He has always responded to loss with problem solving. After the bombs fell, he busied himself at Parsons, not only out of duty to Jack and the family, but to keep his own mind off of what had transpired, what the world had become. It's hard to grieve when you're too tired to think.

"I can make it work," he finally concludes. "Gotta switch out the pipes. Gotta get the generator built and hooked up. But I can make it work. We got room for the Abramolin generator, too."

"Why-"

"Because, everything, everyone else, we build a few turrets, try to relocate Argus, and it's fine. Him? There's not a lot I can do for you if something happens."

"You mean if he finds any mention of me in Jack's notes."

Edward nods. "Don't think it'll happen. Doesn't hurt to be safe."

Jenny hugs herself against an imagined chill, reminding herself that she is not having a bad dream, that this is her reality. She's survived on tenterhooks before, and she can do it again.

 _Not like there's anything you can do if he comes for you_ , she thinks. _Best hope is to minimize the collateral._

She shivers, and tries not to think of the grim possibilities. "What's the plan?" She asks.

"I'm sending you to Bunker Hill tomorrow," he says, not taking his eyes off the piping. "I'll give you a list. Hire one of the caravaners to bring it here."

"And you?"

"I'll salvage what I can from Parsons, and meet you. "

"Can you bring me seeds?"

"From Parsons?"

"From the house." Her face flushes. "I'd take them myself, but…"

Edward nods. "I can do my best. "

The next day finds her at Bunker Hill, trying to wheedle better prices on what they need. Nothing's changed, not really. Deb is still there, and Kessler, too. Carla still casts spurious glances at all the newcomers. Stockton's standoffish, but she's learned not to take it personally.

She's almost done when he calls her over.

"Miss Jenny,' he begins. "I heard the news about warehouse being hit. Might you have any suggestions of an alternate location? I'm asking for our mutual friend."

Jenny nods. "There's one in progress. Not far from the last one. I'll get back to you with the details."

Stockton nods. "Much appreciated."

She negotiates for a few extra hands, as well, people fresh off Cabot payroll whom she knows she can trust as guards. She has no intention of sleeping at the house if she doesn't have to, even if it means going a night without a shower and drinking bottled water.

By the time Edward arrives, she's already set up a small perimeter patrol and has begun sorting the deliveries in the basement, keeping them to a corner to give Edward the maximum amount of space, The basement is concrete, but furnished, eerily reminiscent of a bomb shelter.

"What makes you think it wasn't?" Edward asks when she brings it up.

Jenny shrugs. "Guess I can't imagine how much it would have cost to build."

"Used to be a nice area, J. Wasn't like Southie."

"Nick and I weren't living in Southie, and we couldn't have afforded this."

"That's the problem with only having your own money to rely on. Never got the impression Mr. Valentine came from wealth."

She snorts. "Fair enough."

"You wanna start on things tonight?"

She blushes. "I felt bad asking."

"Nah," he shakes his head. "I'd feel better doin' something, rather than nothing."

"Yeah," she takes a long exhale. "Me, too."

"Nice call on the guards, by the way," he offers, opening his toolbox.

"You've trained me well."

They work through the first night with Edward changing out the pipes, and Jenny bundling up the remnants for scrap. They sleep through the next morning, and then Edward is at it again, disassembling the water purification system from Parsons, and rebuilding it in miniature. When he's finally done, he hooks up a small generator and hands Jenny a test tube.

"Go try it out. Test strips are in the tool box."

She rummages briefly in the tool box, grabbing the container of test strips, then heads up the stairs. She turns on the faucet, and lets it run for a few minutes before filling the vial and inserting the test strip.

It is the first good news they've received, announced with a joyous shout. "We're in business!"

"Good," Edward says. Even from the first floor, she can hear the ragged edge to his voice. "That's good, Jenny."

They keep working, keep fixing. She drags out a rotting sofa and broken kitchen chairs. Edward starts work on the permanent generator.

"We have to go back," he says, sometime before dinner.

"You can go back," Jenny counters. "I can stay here. The water's fine now. We've got a few good guns outside. I'll be careful."

"Come on J," Edward begins. "The mattress has dried blood on it. We have to fix the floorboards upstairs. You can't stay here."

She pauses for a moment. "You think he'll show up, don't you?" She asks.

"That's my worry. He's paranoid enough as it is. We don't need him making a house call."

She sighs, and resigns herself to the inevitable. "Fine. Let's go."

Cabot House used to feel like a fortress: impenetrable and impervious. Whatever the Wasteland threw at them, except for maybe the Institute, it had always felt like danger stopped at the front door.

She admits that, on the surface, none of that has changed. The house is as impregnable as it has always been, maybe even more so with the addition of the elder Cabot. After all, the walls still stand. The defenses still work, Lorenzo could, with little effort, rip any intruder apart.

But that's just it: as long as Lorenzo is there, she'd rather take her chances on the outside. Cabot House is still a fortress but the comfort it once offered has been supplanted by a creeping fear. The greatest danger now lies within the house, rather than outside of it. It is a danger that they are unable to predict and unable to combat. Without Jack, they are at a loss, only able to placate the mad man or flee from him.

Jenny knows it is a time bomb. Some day, maybe not soon, but some day, they will lose control. Someone will say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, and she and Edward will be on the receiving end of Lorenzo's wrath. They too will end up splattered across the walls, blood staining the carpet. If she is lucky, it will be in her sleep.

If she is lucky, she will get out before it ever happens.

She misses Nick. He is the first thought that crosses her mind in the morning, and the last one to drift across at night. She misses his smile, his laugh, the feeling of his hand in hers. She misses his smell, his taste, his lips on hers. The ache has dulled some with time, but it still knocks the wind out of her when she least expects it.

If there is anyway to find him again, it is almost certainly in death.

But, Jenny doesn't want to die.

She has been in this world long enough to be curious, to sometimes even be hopeful. She was watched Boston rise from its ashes to form something new. She remembers when Diamond City was only a few ramshackle huts, when Bunker Hill was only the pipe dream of a few ambitious caravan owners. Selfishly, she wants to see what happens next. She wants to watch the world come back together, reassemble its shards into a brave new civilization, one as flawed and messy and beautiful as the one that was lost to the fire.

And maybe, just maybe, she wants to be a part of it

She keeps to herself back in the house, leaving Edward to account for their activities. She makes dinner, and takes a shower, and bunkers down. She reasons that if she makes herself scarce, if she disappears into the tiny refuge that is her room, then he can find no reason to come for her. It's a gamble, but it's also the most sensible course of action.

At night, she lies in bed and listens to him pacing the hallways. She's wonders if he ever sleeps, or if the artifact has removed the need for that. She holds her breath each time the footsteps grow close to her door, only relaxing once they've faded into the distance.

It is not particularly restful.

She wakes early after a night of half-sleep, sore and exhausted, but eager to get back to work on the renovations. She folds a change of clothes into her bag, concealing them under a first aid kit and a bottle of Nuka Cola.

She presents a silent Lorenzo with his tea before meeting Edward in the foyer. His face is still drawn, his features too tight, but he at least looks like he's slept. They walk quietly across the decimated landscape in the early morning light, greeting the hired hands as they approach the house.

"It's funny," one of them mentions to Edward in passing. "I've never been in a corner of the 'Wealth so quiet. Save for Cabot House," he quickly tags on. "No mole rats, no ferals, no raiders. It's almost like someone's been cleaning house."

"Keep an eye on it," Edward instructs. "I'm all for having a little help, as long as it's not setting us up for another problem down the road."

The merc nods, and they get to work.

She drags the mattress down the stairs, and out into the street. She's not sure what to do with it. In the old days, she would have called municipal waste, but she somehow doubts that particular service has been a real focus in the post-apocalypse.

"Just leave it, J" Edawrd instructs from under the chassis of a generator. "Someone'll take it."

"Hope you're right," she says, mounting the stairs. "Gonna be an awfully attractive chew toy for the molerats otherwise."

"Or junkies," Edward grumbles.

By the end of the day, she has salvaged what she can of the furniture and dragged the rest out to the nearby alley. She has hung her spare dress on the barren curtain rod of the bedroom window, and begun to pry up the rotting floorboards. Edward has finished the chassis of the generator, and begun the preliminary work to insert the fission core, including connecting the necessary wires. It will be another trip to Parsons before he can complete it, but the amount they have accomplished gives her no small amount of satisfaction.

They return to the house filthy and exhausted. She hides in steaming hot showers, and avoids Lorenzo. Every day, it's the same cycle, the same dance.

By the middle of the second week, the house is electrified, with the generator downstairs humming away. By the end, they've torn up the linoleum in the kitchen, replacing it with clean white tile. The third week sees the rotted floorboards on the second story replaced and the bathroom plumbing and fixtures changed. She picks her way into the attic and begins to empty that as well, salvaging the few items she can, and disposing of the various animal skeletons with as little contact as possible. She notices that the former occupant's body has disappeared from the dumpster, and she tries not to contemplate where it's gone, who might have taken it, or what purpose they might have had in doing so.

She has a sinking feeling it wasn't to give the poor bastard a proper burial.

At night, the guilt begins to eat at her. She is scared, yes, but she is also strangely excited. They are building her a small corner of the universe, a place wholly and unequivocally hers. It is a place that bears no history for her, an opportunity to begin yet again. It is her pass to define herself in the framework of the Commonwealth that is, free from her ghosts.

Yet, her heart aches. This was never something she wanted and she would give it up to bring back Jack, and Emogene, and even Wilhelmina. She was content in her safe little bubble, content translating obscure languages, and passing her days reading. She fights the urge to imagine Emogene dropping by, some new schmuck in tow, enchanted by her charms and oblivious to her restlessness. She tries not to picture the way Jack could stare after Edward, love in his eyes, or the way they could settle perfectly on the sofa after a long day, Diamond City Radio on in the background, a bottle of the good bourbon, and two glasses in front of them. She misses the easy camaraderie, misses Jack's puttering, misses the collective efforts to contain Wilhelmina when she has having one of her _moods_.

But she is grateful. Grateful to them for their kindness, for their help; for their friendship and their love; for putting her back together in the wake of everything that happened. She misses Emogene's cavalier disregard for sensibility, the way she'd taken Jenny out on the town within a week of her arrival.

"What will the courts say if they see you?" Jack had asked, watching with a sort of bewilderment as Emogene had bundled Jenny out the door.

"You're the doctor!" She had called back. "You'll think of something."

"Be careful with her, Emogene," Edward had admonished her gently. "She's still pretty fragile."

"She can't stay here all the time." Emogene had countered. "The goal is to help her feel better, not make her even more depressed."

 _And how did you pay them back?_ Jenny thinks. _When they needed you, you left_. _You left, and you left them to die. Some show of gratitude, Lands_.

She rolls over and buries her head under her pillow, trying not to think about it, willing the pit in her stomach to go away.

The fourth week starts with a trip to Bunker Hill. They have a household worth of goods to move, and carrying it on hired brahmin will be far more efficient than trying to lug it all themselves. She takes the opportunity to update Stockton, mentioning that the new warehouse is almost ready, that it's simply a matter of moving in the goods. He spares a moment to look relieved, and tells her their mutual friend will be pleased to hear that.

Most of the furniture from the house she barely lived in is stored in the Cabot's attic. Lorenzo watches the proceedings, commenting on the quality of the pieces as they're carted out. Jenny reminds herself that this is the better outcome, that he could have refused to allow them to take anything at all.

In her room, she empties her closet into boxes, wedges her books in, along with her photos and her papers, and the other sundry things she's collected. She removes the photo strip from her dressing table, pressing it in between the pages of the scrapbooks she secrets away under a threadbare sweater. Finally, she inserts a blank holotape into her terminal, copying its contents before purging them from the hard drive. When she is finished, the room is barren and pristine, almost unrecognizable as her refuge of more than two centuries.

She feels no grief, sheds no tears. This is not her home.

The walk to the house feels longer than it should. Her gun is drawn, but she expects no problems along the route. She spends most of it offering scritches to the brahmin closest to her, whose heads nuzzle against her side whenever they stop.

With the help of the men, the furniture is moved in quickly. She drags down the bed frame from the attic and knocks it together, pushing it against the wall. Within a few hours, she has a kitchen set, a rug, a dresser, a trunk, a sofa, and a small loveseat in place. She thanks the men, and Edward pays them. Then, they are gone.

Edward helps her stack the newly cleaned kitchen cabinets with dish and glassware, and hefts a few boxes up the stairs. When he is sufficiently certain she's settled, they sit out on the small balcony off the second floor, Gwinnett Ales in hand.

"I think I fucked up," she offers abruptly.

"Tiles in the kitchen look good. The loose one took after all."

"Not with the tiles. I mean …" She takes a deep breath. "I don't think I should have left Wilhelmina and Emogene."

She can't meet Edward's gaze. "The hell would that have gotten us?" He asks.

"I know, probably nothing. I just …"

"It would have gotten me another grave to dig, and nothing else."

"I left them to die!"

It comes out louder than she'd meant it to, and hangs in the air between them.

"I left them to die, and I didn't even try to do anything about it," she says, quieter this time."

Edward pinches at what's left of the bridge of his nose. "if they wanted to leave, they would have left."

"Emogene thought she could knock him out, thought she had a chance of putting him back in the box. I should have been there to help."

"She knew the risks, Jenny."

"So did I. And I still should have stayed."

He sets his beer down, and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, then looks up. "Do you know what it would have been like to come back after Jack and find all of you dead? Hell, do you know what it would have been like to find _you_ dead? I remember when your parents brought you home, for chrissake. What do you think that would have been like? Jack, dead. You, dead. Me, alone with Lorenzo."

"Look, J," he continues, his voice softening. "I can't tell you what you did or didn't do, and I sure as hell can't give you absolution, and even if I could, you wouldn't take it. But I'm glad Emogene shoved you out the door, and I'm glad you didn't hang around. She made her choice. You made yours. We all gotta live with it."

She leans against the brick. "Just … Fuck."

"That about sums it up."

She's surprised at how quickly she adapts to living on her own. She keeps the radio tuned the Diamond City station and talks to her parents on the HAM unit Edward buys her as a sort of housewarming present. She quickly grows tired of unpacking all at once, and resolves to find something else to do with her time.

On her next trip to Bunker Hill, she points out to Kessler that they're in need of a medic, and inquires about renting space.

"I'm not a surgeon," Jenny concedes. "But, let's be honest: the facial reconstruction types aren't shopping here anyway."

Kessler quirks an eyebrow at her, but takes half off the first month's rental. Jenny uses the savings to hire a merc she finds in Goodneighbor, hiding out from the Gunners.

"You're a liability," she says when he gives her his price. "And untested. You're as likely to get me shot up as to keep it from happening."

"250. Final offer."

"Deal."

"Jennifer Lands," she says, extending a hand.

"R.J. MacCready." The man replies, giving her a firm shake.

"Welcome aboard."

There's a knock at the door one night, about a week after she's moved in. She looks up from where she's rearranging books on a shelf and heads for the door.

One of the mercs is standing there, along with Deacon, a bloody gash running the length of his left arm.

"Found him skulking around, Ms. Lands. He says he knows you."

"Thanks, Tim. He's fine."

"I like it. Very subtle," Deacon sneers after she shuts the door.

"Oh shush," she counters. "It's insurance against the raiders."

"From what I hear," he says, pulling out a kitchen chair. "That's not the only insurance."

"What do you mean?" She calls from halfway up the stairs.

"Heard a rumor. Some guy named Pickman's taken up residence not too far from you. He's a painter. Hear raider blood's his pigment of choice," he offers as she hops back down the steps, bag in tow.

"That's barbaric," she says, pulling out a chair and dragging it so that they're almost knee-to-knee. "Let me see that arm."

"Would explain why it's so quiet around here."

"No one man could take on an entire raider gang."

"Speak for yourself," he puffs in mock offense.

He hisses when she begins cleaning the wound. "It's cute," he offers, looking around. "Your place, I mean."

"Yeah," she says, attention on his arm. "It's a nice place. Was pretty rough at first. Got a lot better when Edward got the purifier and the generator working."

"Easy living," he says as she reaches for the gauze. "How are you holding up?"

She sighs. "Lorenzo's the Sword of Damocles. It feels good to be out of his direct ire, but a lot less good to know Edward's still there." She resists the temptation to add that he's there _because_ of her. "I mean, when … if he goes nuts and shows up here, there's not a lot I can do." She shakes her head. "As for Jack and Emogene…" Her voice trails off. "I've lost a lot of people. I didn't think I'd lose them. But, " she presses on, securing the gauze to his arm. "I'm pretty good at mourning."

"Heard you're doing something about it," Deacon ventures.

"You hear a lot, don't you?"

"Stockton mentioned you set up shop. He's nervous having a tourist around. Thinks it'll compromise things."

"What's your take?" She says, refusing to meet his gaze.

Deacon lets out a long breath. "I think you're entitled to do what you want." He shrugs the shoulder of his good arm. "If they come for Stockton, and they get anything out of him, they'll come for you next."

Jenny catches her lip between her teeth. "What are the odds?"

"He's got three suspected Institute informants working for him."

"What?"

Deacon nods. "Don … he got plans to build a device to get into the Institute. That's all I can tell you. We got him in, and that was some of the intel he brought us out."

Jenny stares at him, dumbstruck.

"He's shifting them down south, some line about wanting to expand into new markets, get new sources. They won't be around much. So, that helps. But, you should know it's a risk."

She worries at her lip again. "I mean, I've lived with it this long…"

"You'd be in a position to help a lot of people. Lots of folks pass through Bunker."

"Good penance," she says, softly.

"Penance?"

She nods. "Catholic thing. When you fuck up, you do something to make up for it. Bigger the fuck up, bigger the thing to fix it. Used to mean prayers, but I don't buy it."

"What are you - " She shoots him a look. "Oh."

She nods. "I let two lives get taken. I've got some lives to save to try to make up for it."

"My advice isn't worth much, but don't carry it with you."

She shakes her head. "Maybe. In time."

He stands, pushing the chair in behind him. "Thanks for the help."

"Anytime."

She walks him to the door, and watches him disappear into the darkness. She wonders where he goes, but knows better than to ask.


End file.
